EXITS AND 
ENT RANGES 



EXITS AND 
ENTRANCES 

A BOOK OF E S S A T S 
AND SKETCHES 

By CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 

AUTHOR OF 
" SOUTH SEA IDYLS " 



LOTHROP PUBLTSHTNG COMPANY 
BOSTON 



COPYRIGHT, 1903, 
By LOTHROP 
PUBLISH ING 
COMPANY. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

Published Feb., 1903 



t5 5-V 



a !S 



THE LIbRAjPV OF- 
T'Ao Copies Received 

FEB 28 t903 

. Copyright Entry 

CLASS C\. XXc. No 

COPY B. 






'O ANN WATERS 
OF HIPPOCAMPUS 
WITH FOND RECOLLECTION 



f 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Stevenson in the South Seas . . . .11 

Nights of Travel 39 

I. A Night in Italy 41 

II. An Arabian Night 48 

A Humourist Abroad 59 

A Shottery Tryst 75 

The Strolling Players in Stratford ... 97 

In Old Hawaii 123 

George Eliot 135 

Charles Kingsley and Westminster Abbey . 149 

The Pasha of Jerusalem 161 

Concerning an Old Australian . . . .175 

La Contessa 189 

A Fair Anonymous 205 

The Poet of the Sierras 219 

Early Recollections of Bret Harte . . . 235 

Within Four Walls 257 

I. Morning 259 

II. Noon 266 

III. Night 271 

London Sketches 275 

I. Hampstead Heath 277 

II. Bloomsbury Lodgings .... 299 

III. Chambers in Charlotte Street . . 321 
Once and Again ....... 351 



STEVENSON 
IN THE SOUTH SEAS 



EXITS AND 

ENTRANCES 

STEVENSON IN THE SOUTH SEAS 



FROM the lips of a common friend I first 
heard of Robert Louis Stevenson. This 
friend placed in my hand copies of " An Inland 
Voyage " and " Travels with a Donkey." The 
author was then but little known. A few de- 
lighted critics had indeed piped his praises, but the 
great world of readers after all pays but little heed 
to the newspaper oracle. It is fortunate for the 
writer of books that the reader of them reserves 
unto himself the privilege of having an opinion of 
his own. 

It was rumoured in those days that Stevenson 
was coming to California, and we wild Westerners 
who knew aught of him rejoiced thereat. Presently 

13 



14 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

I heard that he had arrived at Monterey, a complete 
physical wreck, and was there restoring his soul in 
the presence of the charming lady who afterward 
became his wife. It is a question if any one of 
Stevenson's romances is quite so airily romantic — 
I had almost written fantastic — as his own love- 
story, a pastoral that began in the forests of 
Fontainebleau, and brought the exceptionally inter- 
esting hero and heroine to a blessed climax on the 
coast of Eldorado. But what an interlude of 
steerage-tossing on the Atlantic and an emigrant 
train of events lay in between the parting yonder 
and the meeting by the shore of another sea! 

Soon after Stevenson's arrival in California, we 
met. The happy hour brought us together in the 
studio of an artist friend; there, with a confusion 
of canvases for a background, and an audience as 
clever as limited, all things were possible save only 
the commonplace, and in the prevailing atmosphere 
— an atmosphere not unpleasantly tinged with Bo- 
hemianism — the situation became spectacular. 

There I heard him discourse; there I saw him 
literally rise to the occasion, and striding to and fro 
with leonine tread, toss back his lank locks and 
soliloquise with the fine frenzy of an Italian impro- 
visatore. We were all on our mettle. I am inclined 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 15 

to think that every one was at his best — I mean 
that he was keyed up to concert pitch — while in 
the presence of that inspiring man. He was so 
entirely master of himself and of the situation that 
each listener was on the alert and thus unconsciously 
assumed his pleasantest expression. It is not un- 
likely that the exceptional brilliancy of the rhetori- 
cal Stevenson dared his guest to unaccustomed 
efforts and that in consequence he achieved an intel- 
lectual spurt that, though brief, was brave enough, 
and astonished no one so much as himself, when 
he came to weigh it complacently in comfortable 
recollection. I wonder how many entirely harmless 
people have been led to think very pleasantly of 
themselves after an interview with such a man 
as Robert Louis Stevenson ? I don't believe that he 
. ever belittled any one who didn't richly deserve it 
.^-no, not even in an irritable moment. Let us 
vhope for all our sakes that he was tempted alike as 
.we are. 

At the time I first knew him, Stevenson's itiner- 
ary was extremely limited; he usually travelled 
from his couch to his lounge, possibly touching at 
the armchair on the way. Those who are acquainted 
with "A Child's Garden of Verse" will see the 
delightful possibilities of this prescribed journey in 



i6 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

such company. For a long time his tours were not 
greatly varied; with him it was nearly the same 
daily routine with an occasional change of horizon. 
His familiars grew to think of him and to look upon 
him as being but a disembodied intellect; his was 
the rare kind of personality that inspires in the sus- 
ceptible heart a deep though passionless love. I 
take him to have been the last man in the world 
to awaken or invite passion. 

In his own select circle, necessarily a very limited 
one, he was reverenced, and it does not seem in the 
least surprising that there should have been found 
those who were glad to gather at his knee in wor- 
shipful silence, while he, in an exalted state of 
spirituality, read and expounded the Scriptures with 
rabbinical gravity. 

I have visited him in a lonely lodging — it was 
previous to his happy marriage — and found him 
submerged in billows of bedclothes; about him 
floated the scattered volumes of a complete set of 
Thoreau ; he was preparing an essay on that worthy, 
and he looked at the moment like a half-drowned 
man — yet he was not cast down. His work, an 
endless task, was better than a straw to him. It was 
to become his life-preserver and to prolong his 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 17 

years. I feel convinced that without it he must have 
surrendered long before he did. 

I found Stevenson a man of frailest physique, 
though most unaccountably tenacious of life; a 
man whose pen was indefatigable, whose brain was 
never at rest; who as far as I am able to judge, 
looked upon everybody and everything from a su- 
premely intellectual point of view. His was a 
superior organisation that seems never to have been 
tainted by things common or unclean; one more 
likely to be revolted than appealed to by carnality in 
any form. A man unfleshly to the verge of emacia- 
tion, and, in this connection, I am not unmindful 
of a market in fleshpots not beneath the considera- 
tion of sanctimonious speculators; but here was 
a man whose sympathies were literary and artistic; 
whose intimacies were bom and bred above the ears. 

After a phenomenal success in letters which had 
made him the idol of the reading world, a world 
from which he had vainly striven to banish himself, 
he suddenly weighed anchor and descended into the 
abysmal waters of the sea. Now, for a time at 
least, he was lost to us all; we could not follow 
him with any assurance of finding him, or of gain- 
ing any very definite knowledge of him until he 
reappeared from the underworld, richer for an 



i8 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

experience that is rare enough even in these days 
of general peregrination, and which is daily growing 
more rare through the fatal evolutions of the age. 

It seems that the distinguished author of " Treas- 
ure Island " was about to set forth in search of new 
island worlds. Absent from California at this time, 
I received a letter from an old comrade in San 
Francisco revealing to me something of the mystery 
of the romancer's sudden and rather unceremonious 
taking off. This intelligence I had been watching 
for with no little anxiety, inasmuch as I had been 
aware that for months a sea voyage, and a very long 
one, had been in contemplation. Later Mr. Steven- 
son, now a benedict, arrived in California, and the 
preparations for departure were entrusted to the 
willing and experienced hands of our common 
friend, the writer of the letter above referred to. 

I wondered at Stevenson's temerity. Though 
better than when we first met, he was far from well. 
He was obliged to deny himself to most of his 
friends, and to quite forswear the curious who had 
persistently tracked him ever since he startled the 
world with that appalling psychological study, that 
vivisection of a soul — " The Strange Case of Dr. 
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." But the voice of the siren 
was in his ears and go he must. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 19 

The schooner yacht Casco had been chartered for 
a cruise to embrace Tahiti, the Marquesas, possibly 
Samoa and the Hawaiian Islands. Already the Casco 
had accomplished such a voyage. She was familiar 
with those shining seas; the aromatic gales of the 
South were not unknown to her ; she had wallowed 
in the doldrums, with the pitch bubbling in the 
seams of her deck; she had mirrored herself in the 
shell-shaped harbour of Papeeti; had cautiously 
felt her way among the palm-fringed reefs of the 
Pomotus; had rocked under the shadow of the 
Needles of Nouka Hiva, and braved the magnificent 
green headlands on the windward coast of Hawaii. 
Doubtless when the Casco went to sea she was as 
comfortably equipped as any yacht can be, and in 
her cosy cabin embarked Robert Louis Stevenson, 
his wife, his mother, and his stepson, Mr. Lloyd 
Osbourne. 

Stevenson had long been ailing; what he had 
gained in health and strength during a winter in 
the Adirondacks encouraged him in the belief that 
the longed-for Southern cruise might be safely 
undertaken. It is true that his medical advisers 
were opposed to his leaving the wilderness, but 
genius knows no law, it is superior to the conven- 
tionalities of mortality, and suddenly, to the sur- 



20 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

prise of his friends and the amazement of his inti- 
mates, he set sail for the South Seas. I remember 
some of those who marvelled at the tenacity of the 
confirmed invalid, and asked me at the time what 
I thought his chances might be in those summer 
islands, which I had known so long and loved so 
well. The query set me a-thinking, and whatever 
conclusion I may have come to the reader will find 
embodied in this paper — a chain of reveries, 
thrown off with the smoke of my cigarette and per- 
haps as vague and shapeless as the gauzy cloud 
that now envelopes me. I ventured to assert that 
in all probability he would during the voyage be 
brought for the first time face to face with the naked 
truth on two legs. Experience has forced upon me 
the conviction that truth, when naked, of whatever 
sex or condition, is sun-browned. The much adver- 
tised lily of purity — no doubt an embodiment of 
truth — one is hardly brought face to face with in 
consequence of the conspicuous and obtrusive fig- 
leaf ; but truth personified — the truth that loves 
you or hates you, or is utterly indifferent to you 
on sight and invariably says so in an unmistakable 
tongue — this very truth is brow^n as a berry, 
plump as a partridge, and for the most part as 
guiltless of adornment as a babe new-born. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 21 

In those isles, whose melodious shores were to 
welcome Robert Louis Stevenson, Truth, the sun- 
painted biped, celebrates every hour of the four 
and twenty with feasts w^hich are far from solemn. 
Now, the question in my mind was, would Steven- 
son suffer his blood to run cold if the night-dancers 
chanced to be such as would not be received with 
favour by a congregation of Scotch Presbyterians? 
I do not for a moment suppose that the thorny hedge 
of Presbyterianism ever begirt this truly liberal 
Scotchman to the prejudice of life — even of life 
in the tropics; had it done so I would not have 
despaired of him, for I have known that hedge to 
shed its thorns and miraculously blossom, under 
the sweet influences of the Torrid Zone. After all 
is said, your tropic is the truest test of a man's moral 
integrity. Neither did I believe that a man who 
accepted with so much grace the inconsequential con- 
clusions of a Bohemian episode, was likely to blanch 
his cheek at the apparition of a wave crested with 
nudities; or that the apotheosis of the flesh was 
destined in any wise to disturb the eye or distract 
the imagination, or derange the delicate palate of 
a valetudinarian such as he ; I was only afraid that 
owing to the philosophical languor of the medita- 
tive mind, this picturesque opportunity might be 



22 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

suffered to pass unheeded and the truth be denuded 
in vain. 

In the whole range of Stevenson Uterature, rich 
as it is, I fail to find a pronounced flesh-tint — 
I fail to find even the suggestion of one. Can it 
be that I am colour-blind? Must I have a red rag 
shaken at me, before I take the hint? Certainly 
the Countess in '' Prince Otto " is not likely to do 
serious damage beyond her immediate circle, nor 
is she very alarming there ; and even Olalla v^ill not 
suffice, though doubtless she hoped to. 

In Stevenson I find nobility and beauty and con- 
summate art; and wit replete with elegant manner- 
isms typical of high-bred intelligence — the highest 
bred — but no flesh-tint. The question naturally 
arises — was he all art and without heart ? for the 
heart is the fountain which alone supplies the 
delicious dye whose absence I am bewailing. 

That he was an artist and a very great one there 
is no question, and right here I feel at liberty to 
quote a portion of a letter he wrote me in 1886- 
from Skerryvore, Bournemouth, concerning the 
romance he had previously sent me. He says : — 

" How does your class get on ? If you like to 
touch on ' Prince Otto,' any day in a by-hour, you 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 23 

may tell them, on the author's last dying confession, 
that it is a strange sample of the difficulty of being 
ideal in an age of realism; that the unpleasant 
giddy-mindedness, which spoils the book and often 
gives it an air of wanton unreality or juggling with 
air-bells, comes from unsteadiness of key; from 
the too great realism of some chapters and passages 

— some of which I have now spotted, others I dare 
say I shall never spot — which disprepares the 
imagination for the cast of the remainder. Every 
story can be made true in its own key; any story 
can be made false by the choice of a wrong key of 
detail and style. Otto is made to reel like a drunken 

— I was going to say man, but let me substitute — 
cipher by the variations of the key. Have you 
observed that the famous problem of realism and 
idealism is one purely of detail? Have you seen 
my ' Note on Realism,' in Cass ell's Magazine of 
Art; and ' Elements of Style ' in the Contempo- 
rary, and ' Romance ' and * Humble Apology ' in 
Longman's f They are all in your line of business; 
let me know about your not having seen, and I'll 
send them. 

" I am glad I brought the old house up to you. 
It was a pleasant old spot, and I remember you 
there; though still more dearly in your own strange 



24 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

den upon a hill in San Francisco. Good-bye, my 
dear fellow, and believe me, 
" Your friend, 

" Robert Louis Stevenson/' 

That den of mine he pictures in " The Wreckers," 
in the last paragraph on page i6o. 

Elsewhere in the letters Stevenson concludes an 
epistle he wrote me in December, 1880, as fol- 
lows : — 

" The mere extent of a man's travels has in it 
something consolatory. That he should have left 
friends and enemies in many different and distant 
quarters gives a sort of earthly dignity to his exist- 
ence. And I think the better of myself for the 
belief that I have left some in California interested 
in me and my successes. Let me assure you, you 
who have made friends already among such various 
and distant races, that there is a certain phthisical 
Scot who will always be pleased to hear good news 
of you, and would be better pleased by nothing than 
to learn that you had thrown off your present in- 
cubus, largely consisting of letters, I believe, and 
had sailed into some square work by way of change. 

*' And by way of change in itself, let me copy on 
the other pages some broad Scotch I wrote for you 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 25 

when I was ill last spring in Oakland. It is no 
miickle worth; but ye should na look a gien horse 
in the moo? ' 

TO C. W. STODDARD 

" Ne sutor ultra crepidam ; 
An' since that I a Scotsman am, 
The Lallan ait I weel may toot 
As ye can blaw the English flute ; 
An' sae, without a wordie mair 
The braidest Scot ma turn sail sair? 

"Of a' the lingos ever printit 
The braidest Scot's the best inventit, 
Since, Stoddard, by a straik o' God's, 
The mason-billies cuist their hods, 
And a' at ance began to gabble 
Aboot the unfeenished wa's o' Babel. 

"Shakespeare himsel' — in Henry Fift — 
To clerk the Lallan made a shift 
An' Homer's oft been heard to mane — 
' Woesucks, could I but live again ! 
Had I the Scottish language kennt 
I wad hae clerkt the Iliad in't ! ' " 
" (Follows the Aria.) 

" Far had I lode an' muckle seen, 
An' witnessed many a ferlie, 
Afore that I had clappit e'en 
Upo' my billy, Charlie. 

" Far had I rode an' muckle seen, 
In lands accountit foreign. 
An' had foregathirit wi' a wheen 
Ere I fell in wi' Warren, 



26 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

" Far had I rode an' mtickle seen, 
But ne'er was fairly doddered 
Till I was trystit as a frien' 
Wi' Charlie Warren Stoddard." 

The writing of such Hnes as these seems to have 
been Stevenson's favourite diversion during his 
hours of recreation. A playful spirit made those 
hours the joy of the friends who were permitted to 
share them with him. 

One day I found the following little note slipped 
under the door of my den in San Francisco — the 
very den of " The Wrecker " already mentioned, 
and where I was so glad to welcome him to what he 
calls in one of his letters to me, '' The most San 
Franciscoey part of San Francisco." 

" My dear Stoddard : — Will you seriously 
oblige me, and my dear gusset — not a pet name for 
my wife but a pleasant expression for the Human 
Pocket — by coming here to lunch and talk with me 
to-day?" 

A lunch in such company was enough to quicken 
the palate of the surfeited; but the talk? The talk 
was worth a pilgrimage. That I missed much of it 
must be my lasting regret. 

Sometimes he came to my lodging when I was 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 27 

not there to welcome him, and on one such occasion 
he scribbled the following lines on a postal card and 
slipped them under my door. He was bubbling over 
with impromptus such as this : — 

" O Stoddard ! in our hours of ease, 
Despondent, dull and hard to please, 
When coins and business wrack the brow 
A most infernal nuisance thou ! 

" O Stoddard ! if to man at all, 
To me unveil thy face — 

At least to me — 
Who at thy club and also in this place 
Unwearied have not ceased to call, 
Stoddard, for thee! 

" I scatter curses by the row, 

I cease from swearing never; 
For men may come and men may go, 
But Stoddard's out for ever." 

" The Wreckers " was the first substantial fruit 
of his new experiences. " Island Nights Entertain- 
ments " followed. I used to love to picture the 
bread-fruited suburbs of Papeeti appealing to the 
softer senses of the poet. There he could not fail 
to encounter the voluptuous Tahitian ; cold indeed 
is the heart in which the dulcet beguilements of the 
South Sea siren finds no responsive echo. I said 
to myself, apart from the inevitable animate attrac- 
tions, the consummate splendour of vast palm plan- 



28 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

tations, the lisp of the reef-zoned effeminate sea, 
the almost overwhelming fragrance of indolent 
gales heavy with the perfume of citron and lime — 
these will surely paint his skies a richer colour and 
inflame the blood of his heroes, if not that of his 
heroines. 



II. 



HAD Stevenson lived to return from the 
Antipodes in any wise disturbed by the 
sweet rehcs of barbarism that still abound there, 
I should have been sorely disappointed. Filth 
is found there — the filth that has been industriously 
shipped into the South Seas ever since the days of 
that insalubrious old marauder, Captain Cook, and 
his infectious crew — the filth that gathers in all 
the seams of well-dressed civilisation and is easily, 
far too easily, hidden — the filth that is sometimes 
nourished by the very men who are swift to des- 
patch the enthusiast to the ends of the earth that 
the nations may be brought to a knowledge of some 
missionary society or other. It is the ill-advised 
assiduity of these Protestant missionaries that has 
driven the children of nature into red flannels and 
the fear of hell, and has engrafted upon the most 
ingenuous of races hypocrisy and other distin- 
guishing characteristics of the Children of Light. 
Stevenson noted all this very early in his voyages. 
29 



30 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

If sides were to be taken he knew which side to take. 
In the " Ebb Tide," that wonderful and unique 
study of the beach-comber, the tramp of the South 
Seas, he has portrayed the types that have in some 
*' summer isles of Eden " made the foreigner " a 
scorn and a hissing." With one wave of his wand 
he for ever annihilated the clerical backbiter and 
scandalmonger of Honolulu, who in attempting to 
soil the fair name of Father Damien has made his 
own name contemptible in the estimation of the 
whole civilised world. It is such an one as this, and 
the beach-comber, that Stevenson singled out to 
make studies of, that the types may be preserved 
among the curiosities of civilisation. 

When Stevenson first went to the South Seas I 
feared that what I had found most delectable in the 
native character — I mean demonstrative affection 
— might awaken in one of his nature no response. It 
was possible that with the highly developed instincts 
of the uncivilised, the gentle savage might pass the 
more temperate blooded poet by with no more than 
the ever graceful salutation of the race to which all 
are alike welcome. He might come like a shadow 
and like a shadow depart from their midst, leaving 
behind him only a vague and colourless tradition. 
Infirmity in whatever pathetic form it may assail 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 31 

us, does not awaken sympathy in the celebrated 
savage breast; even the sensibiHties of the semi- 
civiHsed are scarcely touched by it; neither does 
intellectual supremacy impress them to any marked 
degree. If a man chooses to develop his brain at 
the expense of his physique, they of Tahiti, of 
Samoa, or of any Paradise in the Pacific, offer no 
objection, but it were better for that man that he 
had never been born than that he display his spare 
shanks in the arena to the scorn of the gods who 
prevail there. 

Neither will his wisdom, nor his philosophy, nor 
his critical faculty, weigh aught in the scale against 
the spontaneous eloquence of a race that has posi- 
tively nothing to do but to be indolently picturesque, 
for the gratification of their every wish lies happily 
within arm's reach. 

The South Sea Islanders are clever readers of 
character — you cannot fool them. It is more likely 
that in these degenerate days they shall mislead you 
through the very arts which they have acquired 
from the artful of your own race — the semi-nautical 
adventurer who sponges upon the hospitality of the 
innocent islanders and eventually becomes a kind 
of shameless and unrecognisable outcast, an object 
of contempt in every eye. Probably if Christians 



32 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

— the members of brotherhoods, leagues, sodaHties, 
chapters, and the like — were to act out their true 
natures, as is the common custom of the so-called 
uncivilised tribes of the South Seas, society would 
be utterly overthrown within four and twenty hours. 
This is the crucial test, the blessed nakedness of 
heart, soul, and body, and this is or was the natural 
state of the large majority of the aborigines of 
Oceanica. Where among us, for all our extrava- 
gant attempts at proselytism, will you find men and 
women who shall withstand the test ? Isolated cases 
there are, and, thank God, some of these have come 
to my personal knowledge ; one of these was Robert 
Louis Stevenson. 

When the Casco, nearing the end of her cruise, 
touched at Honolulu, Stevenson was in restored 
health and joyous spirits. The spell was beginning 
to work, he was not yet ready to forsake the seas, 
and so, for a little season, he went into retirement 
by the sands of Waikiki, a palm-fringed suburb of 
the tropical metropolis. There he luxuriated, min- 
istered to by dear Mother Nature, the tonic of the 
trade-winds, and the tart dews of dusk that gather 
by the margins of broad salt marshes. Swinging in 
his hammock under the impossible Southern moon, 
the wail of the reef and the stridulous cry of a 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 33 

myriad night-chirpers were to him souvenirs of 
the voyage of adventure just ended. 

But alas ! the island of Tranquil Delights is easily 
bounded, and if there be anything in the wide, wide 
world better than such an Eden, it is another such. 
Is it any wonder, then, that the voyager longed to 
loose his sails and invite the four winds of heaven 
to bear him company? 

Once again he cast loose, shaking the sibilant 
sands of Waikiki from his travel-worn sandals. 
Just before quitting that coral strand he wrote his 
dedication of '' The Master of Ballantrae," to Sir 
Percy and Lady Shelley. The author, in referring 
to the characters in that admirable tale, says : 
'' These were his company on deck in many star- 
reflecting harbours, ran often in his mind at sea to 
the tune of slatting canvas, and were dismissed — 
something of the suddenest — on the approach of 
squalls. And at last here is a dedication from a 
great way off; written by the loud shores of a sub- 
tropical island near upon ten thousand miles from 
Boscombe Chine and Manor; scenes which rise 
before me as I write, along with the faces and voices 
of my friends. 

" Well, I am for the sea once more; no doubt Sir 
Percy also. Let us make the signal B. R. D. ! " 



34 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

Alas and alas ! At that very hour Sir Percy had 
already departed for that kingdom where it is 
written, there is no more sea; and Sir Percy's star, 
mayhap, now twinkles over the lofty tomb of his 
once wave-tossed companion. 

Stevenson left Hawaii for far-distant islands, and 
in leaving her he left the sweetest-tempered, the 
most hospitable, the most confiding, and the worst 
abused people that were ever betrayed by the repre- 
sentatives of enlightened politics and piety. 

He left in search of those islands w^here the 
anthropophagi still flourish, or are supposed to 
flourish, and the remote seas held few secrets that 
the adventurous voyager did not wrest from them 
before he came to shore in Samoa and made his 
final home. He took wnth him a w^ealth of trinkets, 
for these does the gentle savage most delight in; 
glowing calicoes, and such light kitchen utensils as 
may be clustered about the neck or glisten upon the 
unabashed bosom of dusky maidenhood. His en- 
chanting cargo comprised a hand-organ to beguile 
the ear of sable majesty, and a magic-lantern — 
the slides thereof were destined to work latter-day 
miracles among the unregenerated. Thus astonish- 
ingly equipped, I assured myself that Stevenson 
must appear in the eyes of the islanders but little less 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 35 

than a god ; and if he were not dowered with king- 
doms, principalities, and powers, because of his pre- 
ternatural accomplishments — then the heathen will 
have forgotten their simplicity and the voyager will 
have opened his heart and his purse in vain. 

It was my conviction that when the true story 
of this romantic expedition — it was but one of 
several — was given to the world, we should have 
a record of adventure set forth in a fashion so 
exquisite that all the log-books of all the mariners 
that ever sailed the seas, and at last got into port 
or print, must pale before it. I believed it must 
surely be a picture of the Antipodes so brilliant in 
colouring and so unique in treatment that the pages 
of '' Treasure Island " would seem gray by com- 
parison; or that the world of readers would realise 
that they had never before been taken so close to 
the heart of its author — for they would feel the 
strength and power of its pulsation for the first time. 

Has this been the case? It seems to me that the 
voyager has treated his islanders objectively; that 
he was with them but not of them — with them 
in the noblest sense of the term. His admirable 
defence of the ill-governed Samoans, fretting under 
the tyranny of German misrule, is one proof of this. 
He, alone, had more influence with the contending 



36 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

clans than all the white-faced, wrangling invaders 
combined. Had he lived he might yet have proved 
to the w^orld what most of us know well enough 
already, that our great National Scandal — the 
vexed Samoan and Hawaiian questions — is the 
natural outgrowth of Presidential obliquity of judg- 
ment coupled with impotent Greshamism. 

As it is he has left us types, not of the pleasantest 
by any means, peculiar to Oceanica ; careful studies 
that are of special value to the student of sociology. 
The most striking, the most real, and the truest to 
nature of all these are to be found in that master- 
piece of haggard realism, " The Ebb Tide." He has 
left us pages of landscape and seascape that are 
enough to wring the heart of a homesick lover of 
the South Seas. With consummate art he has por- 
trayed situations and surroundings that testify to 
the fullness and ripeness of his appreciation — yet 
is he with them, not of them. The faintest sugges- 
tion of a Scotch mist hovers between him and 
reality. 

In that land he was loyal and loving; his name 
and fame will become one of its noblest traditions. 
They, the chiefs of the divided kingdom, sat at his 
feet and worshipped almost blindly, for the divinity 
that hedged him round about they could feel, if they 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 37 

could not comprehend ; and, doubtless, generations 
hence voices as soft as the sibilant waters that flow 
by Vailima, and as sad as the sob of the sea, will 
chant in the radiant starlight the lofty exploits of 
Tusitala, the Teller of Tales, whose dust is gathered 
upon the crown of Vaea, where he had longed to 
lie. For has he not sung his own dirge in these pro- 
phetic lines? 

"Under the wide and starry sky, 
Dig the grave and let me lie. 
Glad did I live and gladly die, 
And I laid me down with a will. 

"This be the verse you grave for me: 
Here he lies where he longed to be; 
Home is the sailor, home from the sea, 
And the hunter home from the hill." 



NIGHTS OF TRAVEL 



NIGHTS OF TRAVEL 

I. 

A NIGHT IN ITALY 

TWILIGHT is falling upon Rome. The air 
grows suddenly chilly; the loungers who 
have been listening to the music on Monte 
Pincio descend leisurely into the town; the car- 
riages hasten out of the malarial shadows of the 
Villa Borghese. Clouds of swallows dart from 
under the brown, weather-beaten tiles ; bats whirl in 
swift circles through the air and seem to leave a 
faint, dark line behind them, which fades in a mo- 
ment against the intensity of the sky. 

All the bells in Christendom ring out in har- 
monious discord — it is the Ave Maria. Again the 
swallows rush through the air In graceful curves. 
The night gathers; the streets are comparatively 
deserted ; for an hour or two the cafes are crowded 
to overflowing; wandering minstrels play and sing 

41 



42 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES* 



by the open windows, at the threshold, or within the 
halls. There is a clatter of dishes and spoons, and 
an incessant hum of voices mingling in light and 
frivolous conversation. 

A little later the Corso is thronged with pedes- 
trians; the Piazza Colonna, with its fountains and 
its Column of Marcus Aurelius, is brilliantly lighted. 
Here there is music, a mass of idlers, and hundreds 
of little tables crowded with wine-bibbers and the 
confirmed sippers of black coffee. Everything is al 
fresco. The houses are turned inside out until mid- 
night. It is summer, and the city is given to pleas- 
ure, but it is always the pleasure of the Romans, — 
a pleasure that dances sedately to music in the minor 
key, and flirts with dignity, as if it were really a 
serious matter, and sings refrains that are always 
pathetic. Even the mirth of the Roman Carnival 
is forced and hollow. How could it be otherwise 
with a race that has sprung from the dust of the 
Caesars, and been nurtured among ruins that belittle 
the triumphs of modern art, — a people who inherit 
a pride that lends dignity even to the beggar at the 
church-door, whose hearts quake with passion, 
whose eyes look tragedies? 

Long after midnight the echoes of the silent 
streets are reawakened by the tinkling of the man- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 43 

dolin ; some sleepless inamorato lifts up his melan- 
choly voice under the gleam of the morning 
star. 

At Venice the dusk comes in with the tide, — a 
dusk the shadows of which take palpable shape and 
float off in the guise of gondolas. The mysterious 
barges steal noiselessly through narrow, dark 
canals; there is no sound save the softest possible 
plash of ripples under the bows, the " swish " of 
the swinging oar, the cry of the gondolier as he 
gives warning of his approach. Overhead there 
are touches of moonlight upon the high chimneys, 
the projecting cornices, or a gallery here and there. 
But the canal is in deep shadow, and its waters as 
black as ink. We drift under numberless low 
bridges, turn corners at every angle, and swim into 
vistas that stretch far away into the blue night. 

There is the silence of the sea, that compels recip- 
rocal silence; the reflections of the distant lamps 
vibrate like flaming censers swung by golden chains. 
Hark! over the water steals the voice of the gondo- 
lier : he is chanting the lines of Tasso. We sweep 
through the Grand Canal; the fagades of antique 
palaces are painted in colours by the moonlight upon 
a background of ebony. We approach the Piaz- 
zetta; the Palazzo Ducale is transformed into a 



44 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

pavilion of alabaster; the two gigantic columns, 
between which it is unlucky to pass, tower to the 
skies, the winged lion soars among the stars. In 
front of San Marco the Piazza is ablaze with light. 
Music, promenaders — thousands of them — and 
the Piazza half-filled with tables and chairs. At the 
top of the immense arena clouds of startled doves 
flutter among the gilded arches of the basilica or 
rush upward like smoke-wreaths to seek shelter in 
the high gallery of the Campanile. By and by the 
nightly fete is o'er ; the Piazza is deserted save by a 
few who linger for ever about the pretty alcoves 
of the Cafe Florian, the doors of which have not 
been closed for ages. 

At twelve the bells ring out from the Island Con- 
vent of San Giorgio Maggiore ; the monks are called 
to prayer. A few gondolas are still moving like 
shadows upon the lagoon; under the white moon- 
light sleep distant islands, hedged in by the Lido, — 
that long, low island, fringed with verdure, that 
resembles a green wave for ever breaking upon a 
reef. How sensuous, how serene it all is at this 
hour, while the ripples creaming upon the marble 
threshold beguile the moon, and night and mystery 
are building a dream city of ivory and pearl lapped 
by the enchanted waters of the Venetian Sea ! 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 45 

When the afterglow pales on the slopes of 
Vesuvius, — it has burned like a live-coal and has 
faded to the grape's cool and dusty purple, — when 
the sea and the sky are of one colour, and the sharp 
outline of Capri is all that divides the silvery hori- 
zon, Naples throws off her mask. 

It is carelessly worn by day; like a scant gar- 
ment, it is far more suggestive than nakedness. 
Now under the same refulgent moon that crowns 
with splendour all the owl-towers from the Alps to 
Etna, Naples capers nimbly to the rhythmical de- 
lirium of the Tarentella or the '' cluck " of the 
Castanet. 

The song of the Barcaruolo floats over the sea. 
In the kiosk of the Ville Real an orchestra accom- 
panies the refrain of the sea. What shadows are in 
that garden ! What shades haunt the long avenues, 
where beautiful fountains sparkle in phosphorescent 
light, and statues gleam from niches of ilex ! The 
very air is permeated with the subtle odours of the 
monster whose seething blood bursts forth at inter- 
vals in a hemorrhage of liquid fire. The air imparts 
to the Neapolitan supernatural vitality. Six hun- 
dred thousand incipient volcanoes slumber in the 
breasts of these mercurial creatures. Like the birds 



46 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

of the air, the male of the species is gaudier than 
the female. One must go to Ancona, Padua, Ve- 
rona, for a glimpse of fair women. 

Yonder, among the bowers on the brow of 
Posilipo, is the tomb of Virgil ; here, in one of the 
shadiest avenues of the green garden by the sea, is 
a temple enshrining his bust. It is well that he who 
sang of Alexis should fix his marble gaze upon 
those who, with hearts as light as thistledown, 
swayed by every burst of passion, enact the idyl of 
the second eclogue while they await the coming of 
the dawn. 

The Neapolitan never sleeps, unless, like the alba- 
tross, he slumbers on the wing. The Italian 
night is manifold; the deathlike still of the Cam- 
pagna is broken only by the howl of the sheep-dogs. 
Among the mountain towns — those walled settle- 
ments that hang upon giddy ledges like wasp-nests 
— the bell that chimes the quarter-hours is the only 
audible sound. 

The sea sobs under the cliffs at Amalfi; the owl 
cries in the wilderness about Paestum; the grillo 
chirps in the streets of Ravenna, and in the half- 
deserted cities of the north the solitary shepherd lad 
pipes his flock ; while the moon rolls over from the 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 47 

eastern sea, touching all the level tops of the stone- 
pines and the sombre walls of cypress that o'er- 
shadow Florence, making a night of it beyond com- 
pare. 



II. 



AN ARABIAN NIGHT 



TOWARD sunset we pulled to shore. The 
barge sat upon the water like a huge gourd. 
A dozen dusky Nubians, with ribs of steel and 
muscles of iron, pulled the long oars, that rose 
and fell upon the river in rhythmical cadence, while 
they chanted in deep gutturals a melodious though 
monotonous legend of the Nile. The island was 
bathed in radiance. We approached a crumbling- 
terrace from which the fine grass fell in fringes; 
and all the wide stairs that led from the river to the 
rock above were broken and overgrown with moss 
and trailing creepers. A floating vine served for a 
cable to draw us to the land. The crew, clad 
briefly in a girdle of flaming colours, leaped over- 
board; and a moment later we lay safely moored 
under the tall palms of Philae, the sacred isle. 
Michel, with his well-trained retinue, proceeded to 
lay dinner in a superb pavilion overhanging the 

48 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 49 

eastern branch of the river ; and while our appetites 
were sharpening, we scattered in pairs among the 
temples, corridors, and tombs that cover the island 
from shore to shore. 

You know Philae, the tropical oasis in the Nile, 
a few miles above the first cataract — a garden in 
the desert, walled about by huge cliffs as black as 
night, as smooth as glass, as hard as adamant? 
These are the iron gates of Nubia; and many a 
king whose glorious day is almost lost in history 
has left his seal indelibly engraven on the rock. 

We had reviewed hastily the antiquities and the 
interesting ruins of the island, when we were sum- 
moned to our repast. Seated on fallen columns, 
among pillars and obelisks that have survived the 
siege of time, we feasted. There were Catholics, 
Protestants, Mohammedans, and infidels grouped 
on the eastern terrace, awaiting moonrise. The 
shadows deepened among the hills; the last flush 
of sunset faded like a rose, and the delicate after- 
glow seemed to be spirited away by the deep, strong 
current that swept about our island, flowing for ever 
through the desert into the green and fertile north- 
land, the land of Goshen. 

I wonder if any one of us realised at that moment 
that he was sitting among the ruins of a race once 



so EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

more aflluent, more poetic, more artistic than our 
own; that it had its revelations, its reUgious devel- 
opment, its triumphs, and its decay ; that Osiris, the 
god of that people, was so adored that even his name 
was not uttered by profane lips; and in those days 
the most terrible of oaths was this : *' By him who 
sleeps in Philae." 

We divided the cold turkey and champagne within 
reach of that undiscovered tomb. At our backs 
loomed one of the most splendid and perfect temples 
of the East. True, it is but two thousand years old, 
— the paint was hardly dry when King Herod 
decreed the slaughter of the Holy Innocents, — but 
it was sacred to Osiris. Christians have worshipped 
in it since, and have deserted it in their turn; and 
there is every prospect of some person — one of the 
divinities of the nineteenth century — getting a 
lease from that mercenary and improvident Khedive, 
whose popularity is based upon a fiction which is a 
pure satire upon facts, and building a sanitarium for 
sick Englishmen and sicker Americans, who have 
money enough to enjoy its privileges. It was not 
well for us to feed thoughtlessly so near to the holy 
of holies without as much as " By your leave, 
Osiris," or " Isis, I hope you don't object to 
smoke? " 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 51 

Anon there was a flush in the east. A wave of 
delicate colour swept over the sky; the black walls 
beyond the river drew nearer to us; a silver thread 
of light ran along their rough and rugged tops; a 
flake of cloud — just one flake in a sky that is 
for ever cloudless — caught fire, and then the great 
glimmering, golden shield — the moon — rolled 
slowly and serenely into space. Our temples were 
transfigured; the delicate reliefs were magnified; 
even the imperishable tints that have withstood the 
wind and the sun these twenty centuries, were dis- 
tinguishable ; colonnades of pallid columns stretched 
down the island, and every tomb gathered its melan- 
choly and funereal shadow on its side, where it 
hung like a trailing pall. We were all silent now. 
A little gust of wind swept down the valley like a 
sigh; the palms of one accord bowed their plumed 
heads to the east. It was thus the full moon 
crowned a Nubian solitude that supreme and memo- 
rable night. 

No sooner was the moon well up than there was 
a sudden stir in Philae. Michel mustered his forces, 
and bore the properties of the camp to the barge that 
was still moored under the terrace. The caravan 
was about to depart. Whatever was to be done in 
opposition to this predestined plan had to be done 



52 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

at once. I stood apart from the busy groups musing 
and mutinous. A form approached me — a friend 
whose love of travel, whose knowledge of the world, 
and whose deep appreciation of all that is pathetic 
and poetic in the decadence of that superb East, had 
won my sympathy and esteem. *' Do you return? " 
asked the voice, scarcely above a whisper. *' Not 
willingly," I answered. *' Why may we not remain ? 
The island is not half-explored. Here are weapons 
and provisions. We may hail the barge at sunrise, 
and rejoin our friends without discommoding them 
in the least. I choose to remain. Will you join 
me? Is it a bargain?" It was a bargain, struck 
on the instant. 

Without delay I secured a rifle from Yussef, 
the pearl of dragomans. A double portion of cold 
meats and wine was stowed away in a convenient 
corner. We had our torches and surplus garments 
ample enough to protect us from the chill air of the 
night. The caravan repaired to the terrace. How 
the palms glistened in the moonlight! How the 
barge rose and fell on the dark surface of the river ! 
" All aboard ! " cried the caravan, in lusty chorus. 
" All aboard," said I ; '' for two of us remain on 
Philae until sunrise; but the barge returns for us 
at that hour. Bon voyage ! " There was no objec- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 53 

tion raised; there was no exclamation of surprise; 
we were of age, of one religion, and of one mind. 
It was our affair, and no one was authorised to 
oppose us. With deft hands the Nubians cast off 
the vines that bound them to the island, and swung 
slowly into the current; they fell upon their oars 
and sang, while the barge swam onward and faded 
like a phantom in the shadow under the Nubian 
shore. 

A last farewell floated over the water to us. It 
was then that we realised that we were truly alone 
on an island in the Nile, with no hope of escape 
before sunrise. Again we heard voices — a song 
wafted on the tranquil air, growing fainter and 
fainter as our dear friends retreated down the nar- 
row valley. We lighted our torches, and began a 
thorough survey of the great temple. From the top 
of the lofty Pylon to the obscure recesses of the 
Hypogelum we scoured the sculptured stones with 
flame, and read vaguely, but with awe, the secret 
history of Osiris. There it was page after page, 
from the advent to the transfiguration ; a very sacred 
and mysterious revelation, which in many instances 
seemed to foreshadow the advent of our Lord. 
Doubtless the night and the awful sense of solitude, 
from which it was impossible for us to escape. 



54 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

heightened our singular enthusiasm. The place 
seemed thronged with spirits. You know it is 
written : " Statues sleep in the daytime; in the night 
they wake and become ghosts." What faces and 
forms started into life under the glare of our 
torches ! They seemed actually to move in the quiv- 
ering light. Isis, with extended arms, fringed with 
feathers, a winged goddess. The mitred Athos, 
with an evil eye set in the clean-cut profile ; rows of 
ibises, giants with coiled beards; deities crowned 
with serpents, and sphinxes half-human, half-beast. 
We lost our reckoning more than once, and threaded 
gloomy halls where clouds of bats poured upon us, 
— mildewed creatures, with fetid breath, that fast- 
ened upon us like vampires, and were with difficulty 
beaten off; they drove us from their solitudes — 
solitudes centuries old — and when we had fled into 
the halls above them, we could still hear the low 
thunder of a myriad slimy wings flapping in a 
whirlwind of desperation and despair! 

How sweet, how delicious the night air on the 
terrace! We sat there till the moon had sailed half 
across the heavens, and then we climbed to the top- 
most balcony of the temple and sought repose. 

Night birds darted by us, now and again sweep- 
ing down within our reach, and screaming with 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 55 

affright; strange echoes wandered among the de- 
serted chambers. Yussef s rifle lay by my side. I 
slept the half-sleep that is like drunkenness. I 
seemed conscious of my surroundings, and never- 
theless I dreamed incessantly. Once I sprang to my 
feet with a shriek of horror that was scarcely cal- 
culated to cheer my companion. In my dream I 
seemed to be hanging upon the very edge of the 
temple and then I slid off into hideous space, and 
was dashing headlong down to death, when I 
awoke. There was little sleep after that. We sat 
in the moonlight and chatted and smoked the con- 
soling and soothing cigarette, and looked down upon 
the river that stole by, two hundred feet below us. 

While we watched the mysterious current whose 
source is hidden in some fabulous land, we saw at 
the same moment a dark object stemming the cur- 
rent and slowly approaching the island. My first 
thought was of the crocodile, that has been fright- 
ened out of Egypt, but still clings to the Nubian 
shore with reckless persistency. We descended to 
a balcony overhanging the water, at a point within 
range of our unwelcome visitor. On it came. We 
saw dark limbs noiselessly propelling the creature; 
we heard quick, hard breathing, and then the object 
swam into the wide wake of the moon, and we saw 



56 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

a human head and part of a human form buoyed up 
by a log. It was the Nubian raft and we were about 
to be inspected by a native of the soil. The chal- 
lenge brought no response from the amphibious 
rascal. The challenge was repeated ; and then, after 
a reasonable pause, I discharged Yussef's rifle into 
the air. With a grunt that blackamoor went on the 
other tack and disappeared. It was an unexpected 
and impromptu rehearsal of the fourth act of 
" Aida." 

We were on the very spot — Philae, the sacred 
isle. Here was the temple, a portion of which is 
represented, more or less accurately, in the pictur- 
esque fourth act of Verdi's sublime opera! The 
moon, the palms, the river, the fragrant jungle, and 
from time to time strange chants that floated in the 
air — thrilling, plaintive notes, droned monoto- 
nously, bee-like, at welcome intervals till sunrise. 
How we listened and brooded over the water and 
saw in a tideless nook the ivory petals of a great 
flower that blossomed and unveiled its golden glories 
until it seemed another moon ! It lived, it breathed, 
it palpitated upon the crystal surface ; it flooded the 
air with fragrance; all the passion of Egypt, all the 
poetry of the Nile, all the magnificence and the mys- 
tery of the Orient bloomed again in that queenly 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 57 

flower. She was a necromancer ; she held me with 
her conjuration. I saw beyond mountains and des- 
erts, tropical jungles astir with crouching tigers, 
troops of elephants, droves of gaunt giraffes fleeing 
before the storm, and the hippopotamuses wallow- 
ing in tall river reeds. Abyssinia, Sennaar, Karda- 
fan, Darfour sent embassies to me; and I had for 
my slaves legions of Berbers girdled with gold, 
shining with oil, musky and shapely fellaheen. The 
sun was up when I woke again; the barge waited 
us ; our boat was on the shore. We had nothing to 
do but to return to our friends and resume the 
voyage — but for me that night the lotos bloomed 
and withered! 



A HUMOURIST ABROAD 



A HUMOURIST ABROAD 

EARLY one raw morning the Inman steamship 
City of Chester cast anchor in the port of 
Liverpool. I had scarcely time to breakfast at 
my leisure when the express left the North- 
western Station for London direct, and in a very 
few hours I had my lap full of morning papers con- 
taining the latest intelligence from the resurrected 
Babylon. Of course I turned to the amusement 
column, with the feverish anxiety of one who is in 
search of pleasure and has for some time been de- 
prived of it. Almost immediately my eye fell upon 
a special announcement, to the effect that Mark 
Twain, the American humourist, was to repeat his 
lecture on the Sandwich Islands every evening and 
on Wednesday and Saturday mornings, at the 
Queen's Concert Rooms, Hanover Square, for one 
week only. That night — my first night on shore 
— I failed to connect, and mourned in secret near 
the pastoral precincts of Hampstead Heath. The 
next day I plunged into the heart of the city, met 

6i 



62 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

a few old friends, made a few new ones, and called 
at the Langham to see Mark, and recover from a 
severe case of homesickness. 

In ten minutes I took in the situation. Mark 
was in London, bored to death as usual; and had 
consented to lecture for one week only, just for the 
fun of it, and to kill time profitably. George Dolby, 
who brought Dickens to America, and whose baby 
boy was born during his absence on that famous 
tour (the child was frequently spoken of as '' Dick- 
ens's Dolby's Dolby"), and who ran a score of 
entertainments in London and out of it — Mr. 
Dolby had persuaded Mark that he could not do 
better than put in a week of colloquial fun at the 
Queen's Concert Rooms, Hanover Square, and see 
if the English, who knew little or nothing of the 
American mania, — lecturing, — would or would not 
support him in his venture. 

There was a first-night such as any author might 
be proud of. The London literati cheered the 
American heartily, and the congratulations that fol- 
lowed were sufficient evidence of the lecturer's suc- 
cess. On the second night the house was judiciously 
" papered." There were hosts of people who were 
unaccustomed to the American entertainment, and 
nothing but skilful management could have drawn 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 63 

them out. The third night, after the matinee of 
the same day, drew a profitable audience ; and from 
that hour the business of the house increased. Extra 
seats were introduced; the stage was thronged; 
Mark stood in the centre of the British pubhc and 
held his own against the infinite attractions of the 
city. Saturday matinee and evening saw disap- 
pointed people turned from the door ; for there was 
not even standing-room in the hall. 

This great success, so decided and so unexpected 
in London, fired Mr. Dolby's enthusiasm, and he 
persuaded Mark to promise a renewal of the lecture 
season at the earliest possible moment. Mark was 
already booked for America, whither he was to 
accompany his wife. He was but three days in 
America when he again sailed for England. He 
had already decided to have a comrade in the semi- 
seclusion of his apartments at the Langham; and 
it was settled that I was to join him, playing private 
secretary or something of that sort, just to quiet my 
conscience and afTord me the shadow of an excuse 
for lying idle. He sailed. I drifted about for three 
weeks, and was supremely happy. 

One day at Oxford a telegram forwarded from 
London apprised me of his arrival at Oueenstown. 
Playtime was over; business had begun. For two 



64 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

months in midwinter we had a large corner room. 
The windows on one side looked down Portland 
Place; on the other they took in the chapel, with 
a spire like a huge extinguisher — I forget the name 
of the patron saint of the parish — and hundreds 
of chimney-pots that smoked rather villainously. 
Then there were sleeping- rooms adjoining, and all 
the conveniences for a life of absolute seclusion. 
Our cosy breakfast at half-past twelve sharp began 
the day. A sleek dependent served the chops and 
coffee in the large room. His extreme civility was 
equalled only by the magnitude of the fees which 
he not only expected, but exacted with negative 
politeness. 

A dozen morning and evening dailies came to 
hand with the cigars ; and then the mail, which was 
usually served with the first round of toasted muf- 
fins, called for a reading and replies. Friendly mes- 
sages from foreign parts; invitations to dinners, 
suppers, drives, croquet and garden parties ; and the 
persistent appeals for autographs — here the secre- 
tary found an opportunity to display his versatility. 

A walk followed — a lazy stroll through the 
London parks, or an hour in some picture-gallery, 
or a saunter among the byways of the city in search 
of the picturesque; these expeditions usually ter- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 65 

minating with a turn through Hollywell Street. 
The lazy hour before dinner was perhaps the pleas- 
antest in the day — an exception to the general rule. 
There was chat or long intervals of dreamy silence 
by the fireside, or music at the piano, when to my 
amazement Mark would sing jubilee songs or '' Ben 
Bowline " with excellent effect, accompanying him- 
self and rolling his vowels in the Italian style. 
Dinner over, the lecturer arrayed in full evening 
costume, we strolled down the street to Hanover 
Square, arriving about half-past seven. 

There was an anteroom — I say zvas, because the 
Queen's Concert Rooms are numbered among the 
things that were, the building having lately given 
place to a more modern structure. In that ante- 
room were a fire, a few chairs, and the blanked blank 
air which usually pervades the greenroom of every 
place of amusement. Many a time have I stood 
with my face glued to the dingy window, peering 
down into the dense fog, counting — or trying to 
count — the carriages that rolled up to the door in 
ghostly procession. There was rumble and roar 
enough, but everybody and everything appeared un- 
substantial and shadowy. There was not a night, 
and scarcely a day, through the season, when the 
atmosphere was clear enough for one absolutely to 



66 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

assure himself of his latitude and longitude without 
comparing the reckoning with his neighbour. As 
for the sun, it was blotted out for three whole 
months ; and at that time we lived on faith — a 
faith that would have been blind indeed but for 
the noble efforts of the gas corporation. 

Meanwhile the lecturer paced the room with the 
utmost impatience, threatening every moment to 
dash upon the rostrum before the appointed hour, 
so as to finish the night's work, and get home to the 
Langham in dressing-gown and slippers. At eight 
precisely the well-bred audience expressed a desire 
for the appearance of the lecturer; and they never 
had to wait more than twenty seconds, for he was 
with difficulty detained until that hour. Mr. Dolby 
had sometimes to resort to ingenious devices in 
order to delay the lecturer a few moments, so that 
the tardy comers might get seated before the 
" trouble began." 

At the Queen's Concert Rooms there was of 
course a royal box. It was my custom to escort 
Mark to the foot of the steps leading to the stage; 
there from behind the door, I saw him walk slowly 
to the footlights, against which he toasted his toes 
and over which he had the custom of rubbing his 
hands in the manner of Lady Macbeth, and bowing 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 67 

repeatedly, as he began with the utmost deUberaticii 
to deliver the lecture, which by frequent repetition I 
nearly learned by heart. At this moment I would 
pass under the hall, and ascending to the gallery, 
enter the royal box, where I was screened by the 
drapery and free from all intrusion. 

I observed, in the first place, that it is utterly 
impossible to escape the fog in London. It is dense, 
woolly, sticky, and full of small floating particles of 
smut, that settle upon your face, hands, collar and 
cuffs, and spoil your personal appearance inside of 
twenty minutes. It is yellow as furnace smoke — 
it is furnace smoke to a great degree. It pours down 
the chimney into a room; slides through an open 
window in avalanches ; leaks through a keyhole, and 
in spite of every precaution saturates the London 
interiors to a disagreeable extent. The Concert 
Rooms were hermetically sealed during the day, 
but at night, when the audience gathered, the fog 
trailed in, dimming the gaslights and flooding the 
place with a vague gloom. 

I found that a joke which took the house by storm 
one evening was not sure of a like success the follow- 
ing night. Some jokes took immediate effect and 
convulsed the house. The hearty laughter was as 
the laughter of one man with a thousand mouths. 



68 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

On another occasion the same joke caught feebly 
hi one corner of the room, ran diagonally across the 
hall, followed by a trail of laughter, and exploded 
on the last bench. By this time the front seats had 
awakened to a sense of the ludicrous and the 
applause became general. Again a joke which never 
aspired to anything more than a genteel smile might 
on one occasion create a panic and ever after hold 
its peace; or the audience would be divided against 
itself, the one half regarding with indignation the 
levity of the other; or perhaps the whole house 
mournfully and meekly resigned itself to a settled 
sorrow, that found relief only in the frequent sneeze 
or the nasal accompaniment of the influenza. In 
short, audiences seem to come in a body from the 
different strata of society. Some are awfully jolly, 
some equally sad — in these cases there are seldom 
any dissenting voices. But there are audiences that 
are inharmonious, that don't hang together, that lack 
sympathy and are as cold as clams. You can feel 
the depressing effect of such a one the moment you 
enter the house; and who is more conscious of it 
than the lecturer, who carries the whole burden of 
these dead souls upon his heart? 

There was an evening of fog at the close of a 
(day during which the street-lamps had in vain strug- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 69 

gled to light the bewildered citizens through the 
chaotic city. At high noon linkboys bore their 
flaming torches to and fro; and the air was bur- 
dened with the ceaseless cries of cabmen who were 
all adrift, and in danger of a collapse and total wreck 
at the imminent lamp-post. That night the Queen's 
Concert Rooms were like a smoke-house ; and I saw 
from my chair in the royal box a shadowy dress- 
coat, supported by a pair of shadowy trousers, gir- 
dled by the faint halo of the ineffectual footlights. 
A voice was in the air, but it was difficult to locate 
it with any degree of certainty. The apparently 
headless trunk of the lecturer told what he knew of 
our fellow savages, the Sandwich Islanders; and 
at intervals out of the depths ascended the muffled 
murmur of an audience invisible to the naked eye. 
Mark began his lecture on this occasion with a 
delicate allusion to the weather, and said : '' Per- 
haps you can't see me, but I am here! " At the last 
period I left my post and met the relieved lecturer 
at the stage steps. Then followed an informal re- 
ception. The greenroom seemed cheerful enough 
with a dozen or more delightful people, saying a 
dozen delightful things all in a breath. Cigars were 
lighted; Mr. Dolby, brimful of good nature, was 
sure to have experienced some absurdity, which was 



70 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 



related with unction and prematurely punctuated by 
a slight impediment in his speech. 

Then home to the big sitting-room at the Lang- 
ham, with easy chairs wheeled up before the fire, 
with pipes and plenty of '' Lone Jack ; " with cock- 
tails such as are rarely to be obtained out of 
America; and with long, long talks about old times 
in the New World and new times in the Old. How 
the hours flew by, marked by the bell clock of the 
little church over the way ! One — two — three in 
the morning, chimed on a set of baby bells, and still 
we sat by the sea-coal fire and smoked numberless 
peace-pipes, and told droll stories, and took solid 
comfort in our absolute seclusion. I could have 
written his biography at the end of the season. I 
believe I learned much of his life that is unknown 
even to his closest friends — of his boyhood, his 
early struggles, his hopes, his aims. I trust I am 
betraying no confidence when I state that a good 
deal of the real boy is blended with the " Story of 
Tom Sawyer." 

" The Gilded Age " was just out in a three-volume 
London edition. Mark read parts of it aloud, while 
I guessed at the authorship, and didn't always guess 
right. The story was written in this wise : Mark and 
Charles Dudley Warner were walking to church one 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 71 

Sunday in Hartford. Said Warner : " Let us write 
a novel ! " Mark wondered what in the world there 
was to write a novel about, but promised to think the 
matter over, and proceeded to do so. On the way 
home it was decided that Mark should begin and 
write till he got tired, and that there should be a 
gathering of the wives and Joe Twichell — the 
clerical chum — for the reading of the same. He 
wrote a dozen chapters and read them to the domes- 
tic critics. 

" Do you catch the idea ? " said Mark to Warner. 
The latter thought he did, and took up the thread 
of the narrative where Mark dropped it, and spun 
on until he felt fagged. The story was passed from 
hand to hand like a shuttle, and came at last to a 
conclusion. Whenever it flagged under one roof 
it was carried over to another, where it took a fresh 
start. The changes were frequent, a chapter or two 
bringing the writer to a halt; or in consequence 
of the business of the book, falling naturally to one 
hand or the other — the love-making to Warner and 
the melodrama to Mark. As to the plot of the story, 
it was never meant to have any ; on the contrary, the 
story told itself. The quotations at the head of the 
chapters were furnished by a marvel of linguistic 
lore, a resident of Hartford; and each quotation is 



72 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

genuine and applicable, and no two are in the same 
tongue. 

Many a breakfast we had in the big room in com- 
pany with chosen friends; and one of our special 
entertainments was to watch the Horse Guards as 
they rode down Portland Place like knights in 
armour. '' Punch and Judy " was an old standby, 
and it was immense fun to note the progress of a 
flirtation between a one-legged sweep who had the 
monopoly of the crossing in front of the church, 
and an old apple-woman who sat on the curb by the 
churchyard gate. This sweep always addressed 
Mark as Mr. Twain, as indeed many another did, 
though the world knows that his name is Clemens. 

There was an American who besieged us at the 
Langham as well as at the lecture-hall. His story 
was pitiful. Snatched from a foreign office by a 
change in the administration, a lovely young wife 
at the point of death, he penniless in a strange land, 
a born gentleman, delicately reared, unacquainted 
with toil, — would Mark be good enough to loan 
him a few pounds until he could hear from his 
estates at home ? Mark did; how could he avoid it, 
when the unfortunate man assured him that they 
had been friends for years and that they had played 
many a (forgotten) game of billiards in days gone 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 73 

by ? Well, a week later, when the person in question 
had disappeared, one of Mark's early sketches was 
discovered in a copy of London Fun, bearing the 
name of the unfortunate; and there were two or 
three others on file, which, however, were detected 
in season to save them from the same fate. Coop- 
erative authorship is not always agreeable, and this 
fellow proved he was one of the biggest frauds on 
record. 

The season was over. We touched here and there 
in the provinces and concluded at Liverpool, — a 
city very American in its character, — where Mark 
read the " Jumping Frog " for an after-piece and 
received an enthusiastic recall. Then Mr. Dolby 
hastened to London with twenty side-shows on his 
mind ; while Mark and I concluded our engagement 
— what fun it was ! — in the Adelphi Hotel, where 
Dickens used to put up. It was Dickens's favourite 
servant who served us, and was only too happy to 
prattle about the author of " Pickwick." 

How did the last night end ? Gaily, with Ihe 
thought of sailing for home on the morrow? 
Scarcely. He sank into a sea of forebodings. His 
voice was keyed in a melancholy minor. He turned 
to me, and, looking out from under his eyebrows, 
he said, very solemnly : " Remember now thy 



74 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

Creator in the days of thy youth," and there he 
stuck fast. So we rang for the Holy Scriptures, and 
the humourist read the book of Ruth with tears in 
his voice, and selections from the poems of Isaiah in 
a style that would have melted the hardest heart; 
and his last words were, that if ever he got down 
in the world — which Heaven forbid — he would 
probably have to teach elocution ; but this was at five 
o'clock in the morning. 



A SHOTTERY TRYST 



A SHOTTERY TRYST 

OVER the meadows to Shottery, where Anne 
Hathaway lived, but a short mile from 
Stratford and the slender spire that marks the 
sepulchre of him she loved. Down one of those 
Stratford streets stands the house wherein the baby 
bard may have first played with the air-drawn 
dagger of tragedy, or sported with Robin Good- 
fellow ; but the place is so changed that nothing of 
the original is now to be freely sworn to. Without, 
all is fresh and modern, and within there have been 
grievous reforms wrought for the better convenience 
of the sight-seeker : the partitions knocked away, 
the low ceiling taken down ; the twisted stairs that 
once led to the attic under the roof are boarded up, 
for the attic has been absorbed into the lower rooms, 
and scarcely a vestige of the dear old house is left, 
as it should have been left, complete and unaltered. 
Down at the beautiful church that stands close 
by the Avon, you may pause under the bust on 
which so many eyes have rested; and when a strip 

77 



78 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

of' carpet is rolled back within the chancel, there, 
at your feet, lies the stone with the familiar curse 
engraved on it. But there is also a churchwarden 
who has outlived his sympathy with worshipful 
humanity, and it is asking too much of any man to 
expect him to do himself or the occasion justice, 
with this cold clay at his elbow waiting for six- 
pence. I merely looked up at the bust, with a gleam 
of afternoon light falling across it and softening its 
prosaic colours, then glanced down at the graven 
stone, wishing it were possible to mark every letter 
on it with my naked finger, though why I wished so 
I am at a loss to state. The warden, having given 
me sufficient time to feel unutterable things, if I 
were going to do anything in that line, began dis- 
coursing upon the various monuments in the chapel ; 
but I had small interest in all other tablets, save the 
one that is the dividing line between time and 
eternity, and sacred to the memory of him whose 
prophetic finger wrote " Eternity " upon the fore- 
head of his time. 

Whatever good I am to get from that pious pil- 
grimage is yet to come, for I remember only the dim 
cross-lights in the nave of the church, a faint odour 
of mould, and a clammy warden who was most 
willing to conduct me out of the sanctuary; and 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 79 

so I passed into the street, without maHce and with- 
out satisfaction. It was a privilege to look in upon 
the schoolroom where the youthful poet thumbed his 
books, to pace for awhile the garden fashioned by 
his hands; yet somehow Stratford seemed merely a 
passing show, the poor effigy of the village I had 
thought to find so full of the spirit of the master. 
I at once hastened to the edge of the town, down 
toward the railway station; then turned to the left 
and passed through one of those English country 
gates that swing in a loop of the fence, so that you 
have to make two decisive efforts before you are 
actually through it. There I touched grass and 
mellow soil, and heard a thrush sing in a hawthorn 
hedge, and was at once afield, and well on my way to 
Shottery. On either hand the meadows were moist 
and green; there were scattered clusters of tall 
trees that looked like ware-work, for not a vestige of 
a leaf was left to them. Now and then, as I walked, 
a cottage came in view, — a low, rambling sort of 
cottage, with a thatched roof; you might call it a 
cottage under a haystack with the smallest possible 
window or two bursting through the roof and mak- 
ing a kind of shaggy gable for itself, and a pretty 
picture for any searching eye that might happen to 
discover its hiding-place — a most comfortable an 



8o EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

homelike cottage, that seemed to have spread its 
walls as a hen its wings, so as to accommodate the 
brood that seeks shelter there. 

I crossed the railroad in the midst of one of the 
meadows, and having got safely into the meadow 
beyond, I came to a land of peace, where sheep were 
munching young grass, up to their eyes in wool. 
They munched and munched and stared with their 
blank, shallow, buttonlike eyes that seemed to be 
sewed into their ridiculous faces, all the while stand- 
ing so still it seemed as if their stilt-like legs must 
have been driven a little way into the sod. There 
is a long path over the meadow — one cannot help 
following it with some cheerfulness, for unnumbered 
pilgrims have beaten it down with much passing 
to and fro — and, before many steps are taken, 
Stratford is forgotten, and there is nothing left in 
all the world so dear as the short sweet grass, the 
browsing sheep, the hedges, and the song-birds. In 
the midst of lush grass, compassed about by limitless 
greensward, the trees whose bark was black with 
rain, and more of those bland-faced sheep, I heard a 
voice that was as a new interpretation of nature — 
a piping, reedlike voice that seemed to be played 
upon by summer winds; a rushing rivulet of song 
fed from a ceaseless fountain of melodious joy. I 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 8i 

looked for the singer whose contagious rhapsody 
accorded all nature to its theme ! It was not of the 
earth; those golden notes seemed to shower out of 
the sky like sunbeams; yet I saw no bird in the 
blank blue above me. If bird it were, it was invisi- 
ble, and that voice was the sole evidence of its 
corporeal life. Such fingering of delicate stops 
and ventages, such rippling passages as compassed 
the gamut of bird ballads, — vague and variable as 
a symphony of river-reeds breathed into by soft 
gales, — such fine-spun threads of silken song ; and 
then a gush of wild, delirious music — why did not 
that bird-heart break and the warm bundle of 
feathers drop back to earth, while the soul that had 
burst from its fleshly cage lived on for ever, a dis- 
embodied song! 

'* Hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings ! " Ah, 
how he sang! tipsy with sunshine and sweet air, 
while the world was reeling below him, and the little 
worldlings were listening to his canticle with dumb 
wonderment. I found him at last, away up toward 
the planets, seeming the merest leaf afloat upon the 
invisible currents of the air. He was never at rest. 
It was not enough that his madrigal had revealed 
a new joy in life to one listener, at least; he must 
needs pant upon the waves of the air like a strong 



82 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

swimmer, crying out in an ecstasy. He drifted for 
a moment, and graciously descended toward the 
earth; but his rapture was not yet ended, for he 
again aspired, and grew smaller than any leaf, and 
I saw nothing but a mote panting upon the bosom 
of a cloud, and heard nothing but a still small voice 
coming down to me out of the high heaven of his 
triumph. 

Behind me lay fields that stretched back to Strat- 
ford; before me lay other fields that reached forth 
and kissed the hem of the garments of Shottery, 
albeit Shottery is a half-nude place, a mere handful 
of houses mostly old, each looking so like the house 
in the very next garden that I was utterly unable 
to say which of the several was the home where 
Anne was courted of Will, when Will had grown 
weary of courting other maids, they say. It is not 
unpleasant to stumble upon the shrine of love for 
which you have crossed the sea ; in truth, this plan 
pleases me more than to have some gabbling guide 
seize me by the bridle and lead me to the climax 
without warning and without reserve. 

I had made the circuit of the solitary winding 
street that is the sum total of Shottery village, and, 
though I had fixed upon a half-dozen nest-like cot- 
tages, in either of which Anne might have felt at 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 83 

home, I was forced to ask at a smithy for the path 
to Anne's. The smith, grimy of face but clean of 
spirit, if his voice was honest — the smith was beat- 
ing a hot iron that spat fire at every blow. He left 
the resounding anvil, and seeing one of the village 
belles with a great bundle of something atop of 
her young head, said he : " Follow that maid, 
master, and you will pass Anne's gate." 

I followed and passed it as directed. There was a 
brace of cottages with gardens athwart them, and 
the muddy road running in front of the two; of 
these I chose that which seemed least interesting, for 
why should a cot having an immortal history care 
to look well ? Is it not enough that its chamber is 
a shrine, and that so long as it hangs together it 
will be reverenced of men! Therefore I chose the 
poorer of the two, and neither was much to boast of. 
A child answered my rap at the door. Was it Anne's 
cottage, to be sure? No; but Anne's cottage was 
adjoining and not tw^enty paces hence. Enough that 
I had at last brought the focus of my desires to bear 
upon the truth; so, a copper or two for the child, 
whose lifelong regret it must be that she was born 
next door to Anne's and not on the veritable prem- 
ises. 

A wicket hung loosely under the shadow of a 



84 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

thorn; a line of uneven flagstones led through the 
garden, and I had scarcely set foot upon them, when 
a dame, whose face was a kind of welcome, and 
whose modest and antique attire was a warrant of 
her right to do the honours of the place, appeared 
at the cottage-door, paused there a moment to drop 
a curtsey, that was like a cue from the Elizabethan 
drama, and I was at once at home. There was a 
small well or spring to the left of the path, with 
smooth, flat stones about it, and many a thriving 
shrub seeking to do justice to the garden even in 
mid- January. All this beguiled me. What more 
could I do than be grateful and enter, since the dame 
had cordially bidden me? Stone steps, a half-dozen 
of them, led to the door; within was a small hall 
or entry, floored with flags, and suggestive of noth- 
ing but winter-apples and garden-tools. Out of this 
entry a door admitted us to the main room of the 
cottage, also paved with well-washed, well-worn, 
and fragmentary flagstones. This was the best 
room in Anne's cottage, and here I put off the Old 
World and the New World, and went back into the 
past, like one who has been long seeking some mode 
of egress, and is overcome with resignation when he 
finds himself at the very threshold of his desires 
and a welcome guest withal. There was but one 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 85 

thought in my mind now. I had found the golden 
key to the mystery of a Hfe that has ever seemed to 
be more Hke a fable than a reality, and it was for 
me to lay hold on it at once and be satisfied, or ever 
after hold my peace. 

Could I stop all night ? — for it was toward twi- 
light when I entered — might I eat and sleep here, 
and on the morrow go out into the world again, 
richer for my experience? Yes, I could, if I would 
accept of the very humble fare of the dame and her 
master — such fare, she assured me, as I had not 
been used to, though I knew not what spirit had 
revealed to her the state of my case, and I cared 
not. I hung my cap on a peg in the hall, went into 
the great chimney that was like an ideal smoke- 
house, and sat in the corner where Will used to sit 
when Anne was young and he was younger. Some- 
how it all seemed like a dream; the dark walls of 
the chimney, the low beam that I ran against two 
or three times before I learned to duck under it, as 
I passed from the chimney-place into the room and 
back to the chimney-place again, in a kind of aimless 
pilgrimage that was a source of deep and inexpressi- 
ble gratification to me. I was taking on the spirit 
of the surroundings and by degrees growing in 
grace. On the left of the fire hung a net of small. 



86 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

shiny onions ; two or three great hams, shrouded in 
white, were slung up in the dusk of the chimney 
almost out of reach ; the poker and tongs stood with 
their heads together in close confidence; and back 
of them was a cupboard, within which the goodies 
in Anne's time were stored. On the opposite side 
of the fire was a stack of kindlings crowned with a 
basket of knitting work; overhead was a flying- 
bridge of towels and woollen socks, each article 
in a comfortable, lukewarm condition. The smoke 
floated past these signals of domestic peace and coiled 
up the great chimney passage, growing bluer and 
bluer, and more and more spiritualised, until it 
blended with the blue sky itself, plainly visible 
through the uncovered mouth of the chimney. An 
atmosphere of unutterable calm brooded over the 
place. It began in the bed of coals under the sooty 
kettle that hung by a chain to the guy-pole in the 
chimney; it filled that serene nook and swept into 
the low-roofed room. Sprigs of Christmas holly, 
with the red berries just beginning to shrivel, w^ere 
thrust into the leaden casement of the small window- 
panes; a bird in a willow cage hopped from perch 
to perch, as patient and persistent as the long 
pendulum of a cof^n-like clock that stood next the 
chamber-door. In fact, it was difificult to say 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 87 

whether the bird was timing the pendulum or the 
pendulum magnetising the bird, for both bird and 
pendulum swung to and fro with amazing delibera- 
tion, and ticked harmoniously for hours together. 

I examined the blue china that was displayed to 
the utmost extent on the dresser; and counted a 
row of small mugs, all of a pattern, that hung the 
length of a big beam overhead. I watched two 
copper-coloured squashes slowly going to seed in 
the midst of the congregation of mugs. There was 
a bunch of lavender on one wall, and some prints 
of Napoleon, the only ones, dating back to Water- 
loo; and — well, just here a curtain was drawn 
across part of the room, to keep the strong draft 
from sweeping every member of the family up the 
chimney, and to make the chimney-corner seem 
rather more like a shrine, I fancy, for it surely had 
that effect. This dark curtain hung just back of the 
settle whereon Will and Anne made love. When I 
had come thus far in my tour of inspection, I was 
quite in the mood to withdraw into my high-back 
chair and dream over the coals that flushed and 
scowled when a shadow passed over them, but 
flushed again as the soft air fanned them in the 
hollow of the chimney. Suddenly there was a small 
roar of waters within the kettle; a cloud of steam 



88 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

gushed out of its crooked spout; a few drops of 
rain leaped in at the open mouth of the chimney, and 
spat on the coals with a short, sharp hiss; the old 
dame hastened from some undiscovered corner 
where she had been very silent and very busy, and 
supper was speedily under way. I remember no 
meal more thoroughly enjoyable than this : rashers 
of bacon fried over coals, thick slices of bread 
toasted and spread with lard spiced with rosemary 
and salt, and tea sipped from the blue cups that 
were so marked an ornament to the dresser. 

You see the dame's great-grandmother was a 
Hathaway, and the dame's master married her out 
of the cottage on nine shillings a week. But times 
are easier now, bless God ! and many a liberal six- 
pence is dropped into the hand of the good woman, 
by pilgrims from the very ends of the earth. 

After supper, two clay pipes added their aromatic 
fumes to the thin blue clouds that floated up the 
chimney, and meanwhile the motherly soul was tidy- 
ing the room and making ominous movements with 
a w^arming-pan, such as it had been my privilege to 
read of, but never see until this hour. All the story 
was gradually revealed to me between whiffs of 
tolerable tobacco and the renewal of the coals in the 
warming-pan. The bed I was to sleep in must needs 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 89 

be aired, as it is not slept in save when the wander- 
ing son comes home to Shottery twice in the year. 
I listened to the easy drone of the cottager, who 
sat opposite me under the chimney, the very picture 
of contentment, and to the unsteady steps of the 
housewife who was preparing my bed for the night. 
The bird had stopped vibrating between his perches ; 
the old clock, with a face like a harvest moon, was 
ticking to itself as softly as possible, as though it 
felt that w^e had lost interest in its affairs, and it 
was not expected to tick with much decision any 
more that night. To bed at last in the little cham- 
ber, next Anne's room. I had already seen her 
stately couch, on which so many eyes have looked. 
I saw it by daylight, when the great headboard 
with its heavy carvings, and the tall posts that are 
beginning to tilt a little under the weight of the 
ponderous wooden canopy, seemed worthy of some 
reverence; but at night by the dim light of an 
exceedingly slender taper, it positively looked to me 
like some curious sarcophagus with mummies stand- 
ing in a row over the pillow, and probably a handful 
of dust and ashes hidden away under the quilt. One 
glance was enough for me now. 

The dame said, " Good night, and sleep ye well ! " 
as she passed down the creaking stairs, and I closed 



90 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

the small door that shut Anne's room from mine. 
There was a low murmur of voices in the room 
under me. I heard them as I lay in bed. Then there 
was a sound of sliding bolts and retreating steps, 
and then an inner door closed after the kind crea- 
tures under whose roof I had found shelter, and all 
was still. I thought I heard the clock tick once or 
twice, but was not quite sure of it; a bird started 
suddenly out of the thatch by my window, and 
gave me a little fright, for the cottage had grown 
ghostly in the darkness; a mouse skipped across a 
corner of my room. I buried my face in the pillow, 
full of vague fancies, and presently slept the sleep 
that had compassed Shottery with its profound and 
tranquil spell. 

It was far in the night when I woke. Some one 
may have touched me, for I started out of a deep 
dream into wide wakefulness. Of course I ques- 
tioned the cause of my broken rest and listened with 
suspicious ears for conclusive evidence. The cottage 
was very still, yet there was a sense of life and 
motion in it, and I heard or thought I heard some 
one moving uneasily about, and drawing now and 
again, a long breath, not unlike a sigh. I listened 
attentively. The floor of the next room creaked as 
though some one were crossing it; there was an 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 91 

audible sound of falling feet, but only the creaking 
of the boards under the weight of somebody moving 
softly about. I knew that the good people slept in 
the room below, and that the upper chambers were 
untenanted, save by myself — unless the truant son 
had come home unexpectedly and quite out of 
season, since his return was not looked for these 
seven weeks. I do not take kindly to mysteries, even 
in so wholesome a village as Shottery, and I rose 
with as much caution as is commendable in a detec- 
tive, to listen at the door between my room and 
Anne's. Surely some one was pacing the floor rest- 
lessly and almost noiselessly, for some one I surely 
heard, and, with that conviction, I looked through 
the worn hole through which the latch-string was 
passed. I saw a part of the chamber, dimly lighted 
by the moon, that also shone in at my window, trac- 
ing the outlines of nine panes of glass within a sash 
but eighteen inches square, on the edge of my bed. 
I saw Anne's window, open, and a print that was 
almost colourless in the faint light, and then a 
shadowy figure passed between me and it and leaned 
on the window-sill. It was a woman's form clad in 
white — a nun-like figure that might not have done 
discredit to Beatrice in her prison cell. The figure 
turned from the casement and passed from view. 



92 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

I heard a sigh that was born of midsummer passion 
and had nothing in common with the season, the 
leafless trees and the crisp, frozen ruts in the road 
over which I had come to Shottery. I looked from 
my window. It was still winter — the English 
winter that seems ever ready to become spring, and 
is never very wintry even when it is put to its 
mettle. Anne's room was more like summer. At 
her lattice the woodbine rustled its leaves glossed 
with dew, the moonlight was warm and mellow, and 
a bird's shadow fluttered for a moment in the 
shadow lattice set like a mosaic on the floor. There 
was a light step in the path, and something like a 
quail's whistle broke the silence; a tuft of leaves, 
tossed in at the casement, fell upon the floor: 
"There's rosemary — that's for remembrance; pray 
you, love, remember." 

Instantly the misty form I had first seen sped 
toward the token, lifted it to her lips, and glanced 
shyly forth. Then followed the eternal rhapsody 
of youth — voices tempered with love and deepen- 
ing with desire; cooing dove voices, scarcely audible 
but easily understood, for the counterpart of that 
story is borne in every breast and told in every heart- 
beat. I dared not listen. The prodigal maid stood 
w^ith her bosom half-shrouded in woodbine, while 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 93 

the moon looked chastely down upon her unmasked 
beauty. He worshipped in the path below, and 
toyed with the clambering vine that had borne no 
blossom so fair as she, now smiling down upon him, 
like Flora in her native bower. She plucked a leaf, 
and threw it to him, laden with kisses. How much 
of this sweet folly gave joy to those hearts I know 
not; I only know, that after many fond farewells, 
the light step was heard in the path again; the 
pebbles crunched under a foot that was elastic and 
bounding ; the echo of his retreating steps died away, 
followed by a silence that was profound, for even 
the ghost at the lattice gave no token of her pres- 
ence. But those wayward feet returned speedily. 
They must have hastened down the lonely road a 
few paces, faltered, paused for a moment, and then 
sought the woodbine lattice with a new impulse 
that was fatal to peace of spirit, for it but added 
fuel to love's consuming fires. The second scene 
was like unto the first. They are ever the same; 
and let us thank Heaven for such sameness ! It was, 
however, interrupted by some feathered troubadour, 
but whether lark or nightingale they were unwilling 
to decide. All leave-takings involve lovers more 
and more; their adieu was ten thousand times re- 
peated, and this was but the beginning of the end. 



94 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

" Parting is such sweet sorrow," you know, and I 
know, and no one knew it better than he who first 
said it: 

" . . . O, happy pair, 
Your eyes are lodestars and your tongues' sweet air 
More tunable than lark to shepherd's ear, 
When wheat is green — when hawthorn buds appear." 

It was a vision of shadows, more real to me than 
any fleshly love, of whose shadowiness I am perhaps 
too conscious ; but '' it faded on the croAving of the 
cock " — a shrill cock that crew long and loud in 
the early gray of the morning — and was followed 
by an immediate dissolution of certain elements, and 
a sound as of some falling body that fetched a sigh 
such as heralds the departure of a disembodied spirit. 

I rushed into Anne's chamber. All the delicious 
summer warmth was gone; the moon had sailed 
over the roof; a bird fluttered out of the window; 
and by the dull light of the early morning, I saw 
that a garment which I feel sure was hanging over 
the arm of a chair the night previous had slipped 
to the floor and lay there as though it were the 
damning evidence of something; but what I 
scarcely dared to question. The air was chill; a 
row of frost- white dewdrops hung upon the clipped 
edges of the thatch above the window; the bed 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 95 

itself was undisturbed, yet it looked as if it might 
tell something if it only chose to. Even the quaint 
carved mummies that watched above the smooth 
pillow looked grim and ironical. I retreated to my 
own room, and again invited the spirit of forget- 
fulness. My eyes grew dry and peppery; my 
eyelids thickened; it was much easier to let them 
fall of their own weight than to try to outwatch the 
morning. At intervals I slid off into unconscious- 
ness, often awaking with a new experience to find 
the daylight brighter and the bird voices more jubi- 
lant. These momentary naps were most consoling, 
and at each lucid interval I rejoiced as definitely 
as a drowsy man is able to, and thanked Heaven for 
the brief, swift morning dreams which are the 
beatitudes of sleep. After that, a crackling of coals 
in the great chimney, a sound as of a small round 
table being pushed before the fire, the clatter of 
dishes, and the welcome premonitions of breakfast 
— these summoned me below. 

I wonder what instinct it is that prompts a man 
who has known the lust of travel to turn his back 
upon the prospect that delights him most, before 
it has grown in the least commonplace! I shoul- 
dered my experience after the morning meal, was 
followed to the wicket by the dame and her master, 



96 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

and, with a hand in the hand of each, said my fare- 
well. There was a " morning lark " to '* paint the 
meadows with delight ; " a black cloud of hoarse- 
throated rooks sw^ept over a grove in the edge of 
the field. The sunshine seemed finer than common ; 
the air fresher and sweeter. It may be that the 
thought of tracking Will's footsteps through those 
delicious meadows gave me a keener joy in nature 
and a closer communion with her; but I think it 
more than likely that the good souls over in Anne's 
cottage, who had given me welcome and Godspeed 
with the colour of truth brightening and dignifying 
their honest faces, had as much to do with my in- 
creased spirituality as anything, for I had come away 
with a firm belief in the identity of the bard and his 
bride, such as a visit to his birthplace and his 
sepulchre had failed to inspire me with ; and it was 
good to find such gentle souls holding ward over 
the Shottery shrine where the flower of Will's 
glorious youth was perfected, and whither, let us 
trust, he oft repaired in reverie, and to contemplate 
in that summer garden the mellowing harvest of 
his later years. 



THE STROLLING PLAYERS IN 
STRATFORD 



THE STROLLING PLAYERS 
IN STRATFORD 

ON a midwinter afternoon, while the gray 
EngHsh sky was distilHng a fine mist, and 
the green EngHsh sod was gathering and holding 
it on the tips of its fine grass-blades, so that 
they seemed powdered with a light frost, I turned 
the leaves of a stray magazine by the side of a sea- 
coal fire in the bar-parlour of the Red Horse Inn. 
What little sunshine stole through the window^ was 
saffron-tinted, and it seemed all to come from the 
horizon, though it was but three p. m. by the square 
clock on the mantel-shelf. Now the bar-parlour 
of the Red Horse is never an uncheerful haunt ; 
the tidy maid who presides there has a wholesome 
and homely welcome for all her guests. In truth 
the very atmosphere is as good as grog, for it is 
permeated with the potent flavour of certain jugs 
and decanters of respectable antiquity ; while a dozen 
lemons — the very sight of a lemon is savoury — 
nested in a basket of leaves, gave a semitropical 
warmth to the corner of the room, where they 
Lor C. 99 



loo EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

awaited orders for their execution with the gravity 
that might be expected of their complexion. Every- 
thing else in that cosy nook fitted its place so snugly 
that nothing was conspicuous, as it certainly would 
have been were it at all uncomfortable. 

I ought to have been contented; but I was not; 
a vagabond monthly with half its jacket gone, and 
nothing of interest in its table of contents save the 
middle chapters of a serial, is cold comfort on a 
dreary day. So I turned to Ketty — the long a 
in her name seems to have worn out with much 
usage — Ketty, whose skilful hands were slowly 
solving the mysteries of an enigmatical sampler, 
and begged of her to say if Stratford-upon-Avon 
really slept all the winter through, or whether it 
were possible to find entertainment of any sort on 
such a day as that. 

Ketty gathered her sampler and her crewel in her 
hand, — the hand that is never idle, — came out of 
her fruity flavoured corner, as tart as a lemon her- 
self, stirred the red coals until each ran out a sharp 
forked tongue of flame, and then with just a shadow 
of reproof in her reply, said : *' The Bragses play 
to-night, and it is the last night of the Bragses ! " 

My breast heaved at this startling information. 
The Bragses in Stratford and I not aware of the 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES loi 

fact? The last night of the Bragses in Stratford, 
and I so near missing them? 

Ketty stood close to me and counted the stitches 
in her sampler; she evidently saw my embarrass- 
ment and wished to spare me. What a good little 
thing she was; one of those trim bodies whose 
clothes fit them like a seamless garment and at once 
become part and parcel of the wearer. Heaven be 
praised for these domestic Hebes, who administer 
the cup of gladness with hands so clean of sin that no 
man dares abase himself in their presence. 

" And the Bragses," said I to Ketty, seeming to 
harbour a doubt that their fame had yet extended 
to the uttermost parts — " vv'here are the Bragses 
playing? " 

" Ah ! in the field at the edge of the town," said 
she, as if the drama grew spontaneously at Strat- 
ford, and the Bragses had gone thither to reap a 
glorious harvest on the spot. 

All this morning I had gone about the streets dis- 
consolate. Things were not as I had hoped to find 
them : the house of Shakespeare, patched, like a 
patched garment, until very little of the original 
remains; the schoolroom still thronged by unwill- 
ing students who can scarcely be expected to vener- 
ate that hall of learning, though it once cradled the 



102 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

genius of the language; and the beautiful old church 
with its one remarkable epitaph and its ugly bust. 
I had wandered from one of these shrines to another 
and back again to the first, seeking to find consola- 
tion in the thought that I saw as much as any one 
can see of the existing testimony of a life so precious 
to the world. 

Returning to the inn, a little chilled with the 
world and the English winter day, that dawns 
frostily but beguiles a violet from the sod in some 
sunny corner before meridian, I dined alone in the 
small sitting-room that will probably be associated 
with the memory of Washington Irving so long as 
the walls stand, and sought after-dinner comfort in 
Ketty's hall. 

There were no further developments after the 
welcome intelligence that the Bragses would once 
more delight the citizens of Stratford, so I turned 
to the sea-coal and the monthly, and between the 
two managed to doze on until tea-time. 

A depressing night set in. The sun went down 
like a red seal, rayless and dull ; the eaves began to 
drip long slow drops, for the air was full of spray ; 
a few dead leaves fluttered for a moment at the 
window-sill and then whirled off upon the air again 
like homeless thine-s in the vain search of shelter. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 103 

I went to my chamber — the Irving room, half- 
filled with a great square bed, with posts that reach 
to the ceiling. Everything in the room is covered 
with white chintz, and white chintz is depressing 
in winter weather, even though it be the sort of 
winter that mocks you with an untimely blossom 
born in the very middle of it. 

My toilet for the evening was sufficient, though 
not elaborate. Full dress can not be expected at 
pastoral entertainments wet down by chilly rains, 
even though it be a Brags's night. Therefore with 
a greatcoat and a shovel-hat, I passed into the 
street, slamming the door after me with the wind's 
help, and turned toward that part of the town lying 
beyond the school, beyond the church, and a little 
to the right on the way to Shottery. The sidewalks 
were sloppy, the shops inviting. It is pleasant to 
go out of a foul night, if only for the comfort one 
gets out of shop windows. Everywhere I saw rows 
of cups and saucers bearing the portrait of the 
master of modern drama — a hundred different 
prints of him. His house, his tomb, were displayed 
with studious care ; busts — villainous little busts 
— made of a composition like frozen dough, stared 
at me with eyes which, indeed, confessed that they 
saw not, and noses that could never have smelled 



I04 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

under any circumstances. As for the ears of them, 
let me whisper in the ear of the artist who half made 
them, that a flat bean, though it be never so large, 
is not the accepted symbol of that organ. 

At the conservatory in front of a barber-shop, 
wherein certain hair-flowers, or rather their gaunt 
skeletons, bloom perennially, and two pasteboard 
heads — honest things with a creditable lack of 
expression — seem to have gone to seed, my eye 
wandered to a background of play-bills, bearing the 
well-known name of Brags. At last I had the pro- 
gramme of the evening's entertainment : '' The 
Bragses ! in that beautiful melodrama, ' A Night in 
a Watch-house!' " 

No — that was the bill for three weeks previous. 
Evidently the Bragses had been playing out the 
season in Stratford. Ah ! here is another : " The 
Bragses! in the powerful play in six acts, entitled 
* The Plague of London ! ' " — bill one week old. 
Again : " Special Night ! Reappearance of Master 
Billy Brags as Tattoo in the grand spectacular repre- 
sentation in seven tableaus, ' The Wars of Napo- 
leon!'" 

Alas ! I was too late to greet Billy on his recovery 
from the measles, or something of that sort, I 
suppose. But the bill for the evening was consoling : 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 105 

*' Last night! Last night! Last night! and last ap- 
pearance of those popular favourites, the Bragses, 
in their great drama of sterling interest, ' The Life 
of a Soldier; or, the Bloody Field of Battle! ' " — 
with as many capital letters as can conveniently be 
crowded into one line. Just the thing for a moist, 
cold evening: war's stern alarums, the spirit-stir- 
ring drum, the ear-piercing fife — what could be 
better ? In my heart I thanked the senior Brags for 
his judicious selection. It seemed as if, with pro- 
phetic eye, he had discovered an approaching change 
in the weather, and forestalled it. 

Thus musing between the barber-shop and ^' The 
Bloody Field of Battle," I lost my way. What easier 
than to inquire, and be directed by three parties to 
three several lanes, no two of wdiich seemed tending 
to any given point ! Meanwhile, stray bars of windy 
music came over the roofs to me in faint and fitful 
gusts. I began to grow impatient; perhaps even 
then the Thespian soldier was about beginning his 
eventful career, and I must miss the touching fare- 
well of his fond mother, who was standing against 
the simple cottage, evidently having but one wall 
and that the front, both mother and cottage quiver- 
ing with visible emotion. I must miss, also, the 
paternal benediction, given in broken accents over 



io6 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

the very flame of the foothghts, and some of which 
was certain to descend into the pit, though the 
soldier-boy gets enough of it to quite unman him. 
I should be too late to see him clasp his betrothed 
soubrette, whom he presses to his bosom with a 
fervour as large as life, while he vows eternal 
fidelity and plucks the convenient knot of blue ribbon 
from the dear head nestling on his breast, where 
blue knots are ever to be found and plucked in such 
cases. Nor should I be in time to catch his parting 
word, delivered at random and at the very top of 
his lungs, over the now prostrate form of her he 
loves, nor the word-picture he is sure to draw in a 
few brief lines that are meant for blank verse, but 
fall a little short of it — words uttered for her ear 
alone, but plainly distinguishable in the next block, 
if the wind is favourable — of his joyous return in 
a few brief weeks with the star of honour flashing 
upon his proud breast, or (and then his voice drops 
to the second row of reserved seats) of a cold form 
stretched upon the bloody field of battle, with calm 
face gazing upward under the white glare of the 
Indian sky, and in his bosom this knot of ribbon 
blue steeped deep in gore; and so farewell! — with 
an arm aloft and the blue knot fluttering at the top 
of his reach. Thereat he dashes off to the wars, that 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 107 

seem to be located at no great distance, for he is sure 
to leave one leg visible beyond the flap of the stage- 
wings, where he makes his exit. All this, which is 
well worth the full price of admission, I am de- 
frauded of, and merely for the lack of some straight 
though narrow path leading to dramatic entertain- 
ments in the suburbs. 

In a moment of the deepest perplexity I came 
upon a fruit-stall, and again sought knowledge of 
my whereabouts. Pomona in the harvest-home 
smiled me a welcome — Pomona built on the plan 
of a colossal statue of the goddess, but who had been 
shut into herself like a telescope, and needed to be 
considerably drawn out before she could be of much 
real service — Pomona folded her fat hands in an 
apron that was tied under her armpits and assured 
me, with a voice full of consolation and encourage- 
ment, that " the Bragses was a-playin' just about the 
corner," as if the Bragses had not yet forgotten 
how to whip a top or skip a rope. I pardoned her 
the ambiguity of her speech, for I had taken heart 
again; and with a rush of unaffected pleasure — 
one is often betrayed into a like weakness after a 
cloud has cleared — I told her of my life and adven- 
tures since leaving the hospitable threshold of the 
Red Horse Inn ; while the good soul laughed again. 



io8 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

or rather she chicked her merriment and quaked in 
all her flesh. We were as genial as two creatures 
can be on a saturated evening. " Tuppence worth 
of peanuts," said I; but regretted my thoughtless- 
ness a moment later. It is cruel to expect so much 
woman to rise short of one-and-six ! Pocketing my 
peanuts, I departed with the superior air of a man 
who knows his business, and is rapidly going about 
it. At the same time I resolved, should I discover 
that among the populace peanuts were not sacrificed 
upon the altar of the Bragses, I 'W^ould devour the 
same in secret, and hold my peace. It had occurred 
to me that, after all, peanuts occupy a comparatively 
small place in the economy of nature, and perhaps 
it would have been better had I generously cast my 
tuppence into the ample lap of her who looked capa- 
ble of pocketing my weight in copper. You see the 
affair troubled me a little, yet it is scarcely surpris- 
ing;, when you have been once impressed, it is no 
easy matter to get a woman of that size off your 
mind. 

Turning the corner of a dark street, I found my- 
self but a few steps from a pot of pitch, blazing and 
smoking in the wind, and about which stood five 
boys and a man, apparently fascinated by the specta- 
cle. This illumination evidently had some connec- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 109 

tion with the Bragses, for under no other circum- 
stances would such a flare and such an evil odour 
be tolerated. By this time it w^as full thirty minutes 
after the hour announced for the beginning of the 
play, yet the curtain was still down and the pros- 
pects of any sort of entertainment very feeble. It 
seemed that the Bragses were a tribe of dramatic 
nomads, who pitched their tent in clover and 
drummed up audiences on the outskirts of the 
smaller English towns. It was their custom to pro- 
long their stay in each locality according to the 
endurance evidenced by the people during this visi- 
tation. When the Bragses were indicted as a nui- 
sance, it w^as thought a favourable time to bill their 
benefit and last appearance; and I fear that in this 
case not only the town council but the elements were 
against them. As I drew near the flaming beacon, 
all eyes were turned toward me. 

" There's one," said a round English youth, who 
was steaming before the fire and throwing a gigantic 
shadow across the fluttering canvas of the booth — 
a shadow that seemed to be making a desperate 
efifort to dash its brains against the top of the centre^ 
pole — " and my eyes ! there's the other ! " he 
added, as a solitary figure grew out of the darkness 
at the lower end of the street. You would have 



no EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

thought we were ambassadors from the very ends 
of the earth, and a Httle late in arriving for this 
reason. I am happy to add that the obnoxious boy 
who scored off the audience as it slowly trickled in 
was not one of the profession, but, lacking the price 
of admission to the temporary Temple of the Muses, 
he sought an ignoble revenge in thus reviling his 
more fortunate fellows. 

The band struck up at a lucky interval, and two 
simpering girls, in the escort of a man with a very 
bald face, w^ere spared a withering sarcasm served 
up hot from the lips of the unfortunate destined to 
pass that memorable evening in outer darkness. 
Upon entering the theatre, I at once saw that the 
Bragses scorned the usual accessories of such an 
establishment; doubtless in their minds high art, 
like loveliness, when unadorned is then adorned the 
most. Therefore, I paid my money into the hands of 
old Brags, who stood at the door-flap, half-out and 
half-in, symbolical of the position he occupies on the 
invisible but indelible border-line between the world 
and the stage. Mother Brags led me to my reserved 
seat, the only one having a trustworthy back to it. 
Billy Brags sold me a programme at thrice its value, 
but you must expect to pay dearly for the privilege 
of a momentary intimacy with one who appears in 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES ii.i 

the '' Wars of Napoleon," and at the prodigious age 
of eleven finds his euphonious name starred in the 
bills of the evening. 

Billy was a little man of the world, though an 
unhandsome one. He lost his aspirates in the un- 
luckiest moments, and found them when they were 
least needed ; but we are not overparticular about 
these matters in the provinces. Billy never pre- 
tended that orthoepy was his strong point; he was 
best known as a precocious juvenile of unflagging 
humour and freckled like the pard. I chanced to 
be No. 21 in the audience on that " last night of the 
season." I was the sole occupant of the shilling 
bench, in uncomfortable proximity of the orchestra, 
and doomed to balance myself on a narrow strip of 
carpet that slid about under me in a deep, designing 
manner. The auditorium was exceedingly small; 
in the centre stood an iron caldron heaped with 
coals, about which the twenty in my rear hovered 
and shivered in turn. They seemed to have grown 
weary of gazing upon a curtain that would not rise, 
though it bellied like a skysail as the wind filled it, 
and once or twice threatened to carry away a good 
part of the proscenium, in which case the whole 
booth would most probably have ascended into the 
air like a balloon. The curtain was decorated with 



112 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

a perplexing picture: an Alpine lake on whose 
unruffled breast floated an improbable gondola 
manned by Egyptian slaves. The pine and the palm 
nodded distantly to one another from the extreme 
corners of the landscape, as if each felt the other 
to be exceedingly out of place, though it was quite 
satisfied with its own introduction in the painting. 
I confess that an hour's contemplation was enough 
to satisfy the most enthusiastic lover of art, even 
though that hour was enlivened with music by an 
orchestra of undoubted zeal but questionable har- 
mony. All day I had heard the metallic tooting of 
the zealous five. Coming over the meadows from 
Shottery the day before with my heart attuned to 
the heavenly hymning of the lark, a fistful of flabby 
notes, shot out of the deep throat of the plunging 
trombone, had dropped me suddenly to earth from 
the pale portals of that cloudy area, whither I had 
followed the lark's flight. 

The time dragged wearily. It was a whole hour 
later than it should have been, according to the 
Programme of the " Life of a Soldier," and we had 
not yet heard so much as the clang of a sabre. I 
entertained myself with watching the manoeuvres of 
a great dog, evidently one of the company, for he 
had the professional lack of interest in everything 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 113 

save the size of the audience. There being no pros- 
pect of a paying house, he had gone to sleep under 
the glow of the furnace. As he soon grew uncom- 
fortably warm in that locality, he rose, climbed over 
the unoccupied benches — they were quite too low 
for him to crawl under — and threw himself in 
despair at the feet of the orchestra; but the very 
next blast from the merciless quintet drove him 
again to seek new quarters, and he presently sank 
down at the threshold of the tent with a low moan, 
which I took to be an expression of utter disgust. 

It occurred to me that I might escape one method 
of torture by retreating; therefore I retreated 
silently under cover of a cigar. In a canvas corner, 
which might playfully have been termed the lobby, 
I encountered the Bragses; they were holding an 
animated debate over a swinging kettle of coals. 
A half-dozen girls, young amateurs of the town, 
stood silently by, each with her stage wardrobe 
pinned up in a newspaper and held much as if it had 
been a rather large cake. Immediately upon my ap- 
pearance in their midst, six curtsies were dropped me 
in a bunch, and Mother Brags addressed with flat- 
tering deference : " Hexpenses was so 'eavy " (even 
without the aspirate), ''hand the 'ouse so bad hit 
couldn't be hexpected, you know, that a drama " 



114 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

(with an uncommonly tall a) " like the ' Life of a 
Soldier ' would be represented ; but on the next 
night, she would 'ave the honour " (with a promi- 
nent h) " to happear in 'er favour-ite character, and 
she 'oped " (with a bottomless o) " she should 'ave 
the pleasure of seeing me in the haudience." 

We warmed to one another over the coals. I 
expressed all my joy at the prospect of seeing her 
on the boards before I left Stratford. As I was 
bound to leave on the morrow, the expression was 
not so feeble as the prospect of seeing her, but this 
bit of diplomacy is too common to be meddled with. 

I fear my incautious exit demoralised the house, 
for I was shortly followed by a family party desir- 
ing to have their money refunded. This request 
was at once complied with by Mrs. Brags, who was 
as stately as a player-queen, and had smiles and 
small change for all. The elder Brags, with that 
far-seeing eye of his, observed that the climax was 
at hand, and with wonderful self-possession, he 
mounted the stage by the aid of a stool in the 
orchestra, and there, with antiquated beaver in hand, 
and black coat buttoned to the throat — for these 
are the birthright of the poor player, and even pot- 
tage cannot tempt them from him — he explained, 
with deep emotion, how painful a task it was to 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 115 

dismiss them thus; but Mrs. Brags, who would, on 
the following night, appear in her wonderful imper- 
sonation of Mrs. Haller, in " The Stranger " — a 
character which she had sustained in every quarter 
of the United Kingdom, and ever with the most 
astonishing success — would refund the money at 
the door. 

The audience was at once dispersed, after hav- 
ing had a free concert a full hour in length, which, 
as it had been rehearsed a half-dozen times every 
day for the past three weeks, was certainly as much 
as they required. Out went the footlights, one after 
another, leaving a powerful odour of warm oil and 
smoking wick. The musicians, who by this time 
began to show visible signs of weakness, put their 
instruments of torture into green bags, relit their 
pipes, — they had taken a turn at them during the 
blessed interludes of the evening, — took off their 
hats for the first time, and gathered about the fur- 
nace in the middle of the booth, as if they were 
going to make a night of it. I later discovered that 
they always make a night of it in some mysterious 
corner of the tent, and are watched over by the 
faithful and forgiving dog, whom they persecute 
by day. 

Brags, senior, with the cheerful air of one who. 



ii6 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

scorns to receive encouragement in any line of busi- 
ness, and who is never so happy as when he is sink- 
ing a week's salary every day of his life, touched 
his hat gaily to me as I turned to leave the place. I 
could not resist offering him a cigar — no mean con- 
solation to a smoker, and perhaps acceptable to any 
man, even though, like Brags, he be in a state of 
wild hilarity in consequence of hopeless bankruptcy. 
I like these cheerful temperaments, though this 
gaiety has in it at times a touch of light comedy 
that is more likely to call for applause than encour- 
age confidence. 

Brags, senior — who will probably be knowai to 
posterity as the elder Brags, illustrious sire of an 
illustrious son — Brags seized me by the arm and 
shook my hand confidentially. I was thrilled with 
emotion, for at that moment the awful gulf that 
yearns between the world and the stage was bridged 
by a solitary cigar, and above that unfathomable 
abyss, inhaling the unmistakable odour of a genuine 
Havana, our souls met! 

Brags and I, arm in arm, passed into the dreary 
street, down which the retreating footsteps of the 
disappointed audience echoed faintly. The beacon 
in front of the booth had burned out, though some 
few embers that flashed now and then, as when the 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 117 

wind passed over them, had Hfe enough left to hiss 
a little when an occasional rain-drop fell among 
them. A dozen paces to the left stood one of those 
curious houses on wheels such as are frequently 
met with in the byways of England; a short step- 
ladder led to a door in the rear of the house, and, as 
we approached, — the door was wide open, — I 
could not avoid catching a glimpse of the interior. It 
was like the pretty little show-boxes into which 
you peep with an astonished eye, but are never per- 
mitted to enter in the flesh ; only here the box was 
large enough to live in. Its interior disclosed such 
a wonderful combination of colours that all thought 
of form was for the moment forgotten; it seemed 
to me like an enormous kaleidoscope, and I had no 
doubt upon my first glance that if you were to tip 
the whole concern over on its side, everything would 
immediately assume a new and brilliant combina- 
tion of colours and form, quite different from the 
last and perhaps even more unintelligible. 

Brags begged I would enter this variegated 
cubby-house ; Mrs. Brags came to the door, like an 
apparition shaping itself out of the bewildering 
chaos, and strengthened her husband's offer of hos- 
pitality with a tempting mug of stout. 

I entered with curious eyes; the little house on 



ii8 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

wheels was like a revelation. The walls were hung 
with stage wardrobe of the most gaudy description ; 
swords, banners, battle-axes, and kitchen furniture 
discovered themselves everywhere; it was a thin 
slice out of the very heart of a pantomime. There 
was an inner room of the same description, and a 
bed in each. Here Brags and Mrs. Brags, senior, 
Brags and Mrs. Brags, junior, were domesticated. 
Where Billy slept it would be hard to state, though 
perhaps he never sleeps, as is the case with some 
precocious children. A movable stove stood under 
the house, between the wheels, and by it was as little 
tableware as is necessary in a camp-life such as 
theirs. With a pot of stout on the floor between 
us, and a creamy mug in our hands, we exchanged 
experiences and made observations on men and 
things in language not dreamed of in your phi- 
losophy. 

Brags grew deliriously gay over his misfortunes. 
He told of the deep delight he experienced in his 
mode of life ; how pleasant it was to hang upon the 
edge of small towns, by the teeth you might say, 
and fight for potatoes and stout. Perhaps you would 
pick up a friend or two whose society is agreeable, 
and then just as you are beginning to feel at home, 
business collapses, and you hitch in the old nngs 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 119 

that have been browsing around the tent-pins all this 
time, and jog off to the next village with the cubby- 
house trundling along in the rear. The same doubts, 
the same anticipations, and perhaps the same dis- 
appointments await you at every turn. 

'' Ah ! there is something to interest one in a 
life like this ! " said Brags. " The well-earned fame 
of Mrs. Brags usually precedes our little caravan, 
and we are sure of a good house on the opening 
night. Art-life, my friend," Brags continued, as 
he swung his empty mug in a great circle that 
seemed to embrace everything on the subject, *' the 
art-life we lead has its trials, its disappointments; 
and it is well that it has, for in the grateful shadow 
of these occasional reverses we seek respite from 
the tedious monotony of repeated successes. I revel 
in the shade; and to-morrow night Mrs. Brags in 
her favourite character of Mrs. Haller will mingle 
her tears with mine in the very ecstasy of grief. 
Fill up, Mrs. Brags — fill up ! — let us drown dull 
care!" and Brags actually began to hum the first 
lines of a song expressing similar sentiments, but 
thought better of it, and ended with a suppressed 
groan. 

It occurred to me that I might as well withdraw, 
and I did so at once. We parted on the most 



I20 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

amicable terms; even Billy hailed me from a slit 
in the tent through which he was taking observation 
of the weather. The young Roscius probably sleeps 
on the stage, and broils his daily bacon over the 
footlights. There is nothing like bringing up a child 
of genius in the atmosphere of art. 

As I was walking back to the inn, the moon broke 
from the clouds and shed a soft radiance upon the 
fine old church. I had almost forgotten that we 
have a moon in winter, and she came like a surprise, 
full of new and marvellous beauty. 

The silent hamlet seemed more sacred to me after 
that, and I passed from house to house trying to 
realise how Shakespeare's feet have trodden the 
same paths and his eyes looked upon the same 
weather-beaten walls; and in that mood I forgave 
everything: the annoyances of the morning, the 
disappointment of the evening, the weather, the wet 
walks. I forgave Brags, junior, saying that 
" Shakespeare didn't pay for Ihe kerosene," and 
that " Stratford was a bad show-town." In the best 
of humours I arrived at the Red Horse and greeted 
Ketty in the bar-parlour with much warmth. She 
was almost like a sweetheart to us all; that is, I 
thought so, until Stolks, the porter, looked in at 
the window and made her drop a spoon and put too 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 121 

much nutmeg in an old gentleman's punch, whereat 
he reproved her rather sharply, and the harmony 
of the bar-parlour was disturbed for a moment. 
That was unpardonable in Stolks, but he was a 
fellow of good points, and if there is likely to be 
mating in Stratford before spring I give my consent. 

When Stolks lit me to my chamber, he ventured 
to ask me how I liked the theatre (with the accent 
in the middle). I told him that for good and suffi- 
cient reasons the performance was postponed; but 
he replied, dubiously : " Them Bragses always was 
a poor lot." 

With the door-knob in one hand and a warning in 
the other, I said, — for I was bound to have the 
last word, — " Stolks, my boy ! publish it not upon 
the housetops ; for, * after your death you were 
better have a bad epitaph, than their ill report while 
you Hve.' " 



IN OLD HAWAII 



IN OLD HAWAII 

IT was the '' Bonnet Laird of Hazel bank " who 
came to the wicket-gate and beckoned me from 
my hammock under the kiikviis. We were two 
miles up Nuuanu Valley, where the walls are steep, 
and the heavens open about once every fifteen min- 
utes and shower down rain and sunshine in the same 
breath. Below us we saw the fragrant groves that 
shelter Honolulu, and we heard the booming of the 
surf, that dashed upon the reef in dazzling beauty. 
The doves moaned in the branches overhead; the 
natives sat under their grass roofs and sang of love 
and death. It was dreamy, it was delicious, — but 
alas! it was many years ago. 

His Excellency, Minister of Foreign Relations, 
'' Nestor of the Council," " Adviser of Kings," 
bachelor to the last, and at that moment verging 
upon seventy, — this eccentric and chivalric old 
gentleman, in whose veins flowed the blood of Ad- 
mirable Crichton, stooped from his high estate and 

125 



126 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

said : " Come in to tea; I have something to confide 
to you." I went. 

" Rose-bank," the summer palace of his Excel- 
lency, was next door. The great hall which filled 
most of the building was surrounded by a row of 
chairs. Papers, documents, all kinds of literary rub- 
])ish, were heaped upon the chairs even to the tops of 
their tall, straight backs. The dust of ages covered 
all; for under no circumstances were these memo- 
rials, precious in the eyes of his Excellency, to be 
disturbed. We sat at a round table, upon which the 
evening lamp had just been lighted. A rack of 
well-browned toast stood between us; a tea-caddy 
was on the one hand, a kettle of boiling water on 
the other. The Laird of Hazelbank proceeded to 
brew a tea for which he has been a thousand times 
blessed. It was his specialty, and well worth a 
benediction. I was silently munching toast and sip- 
ping the refreshing cup — which had always to be 
publicly extolled, or the Laird's heart broke on the 
instant — when mine host remarked, without 
further introduction : " I have seen a singularly 
beautiful lady, and I wish to know something of 
her history." Then he related his adventure. 

As usual he was walking home from the royal 
offices, with his skull-cap, his spectacles, and a batch 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 127 

of documents in the celebrated green bag that he 
almost invariably carried. When half-way up the 
valley road the sky fell, and up went his umbrella. 
The rain was nothing to him; but under a tree by 
the roadside stood a blue-eyed blonde, with a young- 
ster, black-eyed and flaxen-haired; and the dense 
roof of leaves was all that saved them from that 
deluge. The old gentleman, with a courtesy that 
never deserted him, offered to escort these fair 
strangers to a shelter; but was delicately repulsed 
by the lady, whose beauty increased every moment. 
Result — no umbrella, no escort, no revelation ; 
nothing but violet eyes and corn-coloured hair, a 
tropical shower and a mystery. Who was she? 
That question came with the second cup of tea. It 
was easily answered. She was a lady once well- 
known in New York, where she was called Queen 
of Bohemia. Young poets raved about her; old 
beaus grew fond again when her fair locks fell over 
her fairer forehead, parted on the side like a school- 
boy's, and, like a schoolboy's, always overshadow- 
ing one eye ; a ** tip-tilted nose," and an air — well, 
an air that startled the good people down the valley ; 
and probably the only pale face in the kingdom 
w^ho would have sheltered her from the rain under 
any circumstances was the foreign minister. He 



128 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

learned all — her brilliant youth, her literary and 
dramatic ventures, her romance. It was enough 
and it was not too much. Ada Clare became a fre- 
quent guest at Rose-bank; and before sailing for 
'' God's Country," as she used to call these United 
States of ours, the town which had received her 
coldly saw her conducted by his Excellency to the 
pew next the royal pew in the Established Church, 
which was a trifle high, I am told. Think of it! 
From the hedge to the High Church and within 
twelve inches of the queen dowager, — such were 
the possible social transitions in the late Hawaiian 
Kingdom. 

What followed? Tranquillity, reverie, repose. 
She would swing in her hammock and roll her ciga- 
rette, while the violet eyes grew heavy with the 
languor of that dreamy life. I wonder if they 
would have been shocked in the Island King- 
dom had they been told that this proud woman 
had a past such as is not usually published 
to the world, and that of all things she was 
proudest of this? Probably not more so than 
was her Highness the " Queen of Bohemia " 
when she took ship for home, and his Excellency, 
who escorted her to the dock, bade her a cordial 
farewell and begged that she would accept as testi- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 129 

monials of his regard half a cord of documents 
relating to his ministry in the Hawaiian Kingdom, 
and forty pounds of farinaceous flour for puddings, 
without which it were vain to hope for honours in 
this life or comfort in the next. Dignity, diplomacy, 
and digestion were his hobbies, but at heart he had 
all the sentiment of a Crusader. 

His biographer delights in sketching the career of 
the eccentric gentleman. Qualified for the surgical 
profession before the age of twenty, he voyaged in 
the North Sea, practising his art; was once a 
squatter in Australia; amassed a fortune in South 
America; spoke and wrote Spanish like a native; 
in 1824 sailed from Mexico to India in an uncop- 
pered vessel of fifty tons burden, touching at the 
islands of the Pacific on the way; went about the 
world speculating, with more or less success, until 
1844, when he landed at Honolulu and settled for 
life; within a year he entered the service of King 
Kamehameha III. ; the portfolio of foreign affairs 
was entrusted to him and as foreign minister he 
remained until his death, twenty-one years later. 
Here he thrived like a gourd. He struck root deep 
in that prolific soil; he entered heart and soul into 
the great and crowning work of his life; his aim 
was to consolidate the dynasty of Kamehameha, to 



130 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 



establish the independence of the Island Kingdom, 
and secure it a position among the family of nations. 
He wrote and published incessantly ; he exhausted 
the resources of the country in a single year, and 
left no subject untouched from the zenith to the 
horizon. He was singularly discursive — it was his 
failing. In a treatise of political economy he intro- 
duced notes on society, on foreign ladies, the whale 
fishery, the smallpox, the oath of allegiance, etc. He 
opened a voluminous diplomatic correspondence 
w^ith all the civilised countries. He was impartial 
to a fatal degree. In four years his letters to Sir 
John Bowring, relating chiefly to a proposed treaty, 
filled five huge volumes. His secretary worked night 
and day. When not otherwise employed he set 
the government printing-press at work, and dis- 
tributed to the world at large masses of state docu- 
ments, many of them dating twenty years back. 
Some of the smaller monarchies were threatened 
with bankruptcy; for these avalanches of printed 
matter were charged letter postage after they had 
reached their destination. Italy, Russia — every 
land suffered more or less from the frequent ir- 
ruptions of this volcanic diplomatist. He desired 
the establishment of schools of art at the capital; 
he encouraged the rigid formalities of court eti- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 131 

quette; he was the father of an illegitimate king- 
dom, who doted on his child ; he created an admiral 
of the fleet that existed only in his imagination, and 
continued to deluge the earth with documents until 
restricted grants to the Foreign Department saved 
his own country from being sunk forty thousand 
leagues under the sea of debt. 

With the perennial bloom of youth upon his cheek, 
his heart a fountain of romance, he turned to the 
wild valleys of Kauai for that repose which the 
lofty heads of governments so rarely find. Again 
he flowered, this scion of the Admirable Crichton 
stock. Lady Franklin, still scouring the seas in 
sentimental chase of that phantom ship and the 
shadow of Sir John, touched at the summer isles 
and was welcomed by his Excellency. It was a 
strange meeting — the bachelor laird in the blushing 
sixties, and the withered siren whose home was in 
the great deep. He built a chaste tower at one 
corner of his valley villa. Modesty, with a two- 
edged sword, stood at the foot of the staircase; 
rheumatism perched at the top. Her ladyship de- 
barked within the reef-girdled harbour and was 
driven in state to Rose-bank. The cumbrous chariot 
w^as housed when she set sail again, and the rusty 
tires were dropping from the wheels, when I saw 



132 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

it on the lawn — the very deep and very wide lawn ; 
the steeds had grown fat and lazy for want of use; 
and the dove-cote where she nested was creaking 
in the wind, and there was nothing left of the after- 
glow but a memory and a smile. 

He had his dream in those days. At Hanalei, 
sweet valley of the wreath-makers, he built him a 
hall. It looked down upon broad estates ; a winding 
stream bore to his feet barges laden with the harvest 
sheaves ; orange groves perfumed the air ; a wilder- 
ness of flowers mantled the gentle slopes, and to 
the ear came the plash of waterfalls and the low 
murmur of the sea. 

Beyond the valley, on the opposite highlands, it 
was his purpose to build a castle, half-bower, half- 
bungalow, — an airy castle in a tropic shade, and 
here, with this vale of paradise between them, shel- 
tered on the one side by verdant mountains, on the 
other by scented groves, with the flowering meadows 
and the flowing stream between them, at its mouth 
the summer sea — here he thought to entertain her 
ladyship when she had cast anchor in that Platonic 
port. There was to be a system of signals, — bright 
banners and whirling semaphores, — and thus could 
the fair and brave exchange hourly greeting. But 
it was not to be. That virtuous vale is sacred to 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 133 

Kanakas and sugar-cane. The first stone of the airy 
castle was never laid. She sailed and sailed, afar 
into the unknown seas, and he dropped in his har- 
ness without having had the poor consolation of 
retiring to a solitude almost as sweet as death. And 
the other '' not impossible she," whom he reverenced 
for her courage and her corn-silk hair, for her bright 
eyes and her culture, and a feminine charm which 
was all her own — she was bitten by a pet dog and 
perished miserably. What an end to what a life! 
In my mind's eye are the three graves very widely 
separated, perhaps very seldom visited. They are 
all gone hence, those soaring souls. But sometimes 
I dream of the islands that they loved, — the islands 
garlanded with frosted flowers of coral, — and I 
seem to hear the hungry waves moaning, and moan- 
ing, and moaning. It is the echo from that measure- 
less grave, the sea. 



GEORGE ELIOT 



GEORGE ELIOT 

SOME years ago when I was fishing for auto- 
graphs, and found not infrequently that my 
lines had fallen in the pleasantest possible places, 
I received a tiny letter, very plainly addressed 
and bearing the queen's head in the corner. I broke 
the seal and read, with pardonable agitation, a kind 
acknowledgment of certain verses which I had 
entrusted to the post some weeks previous. Doubt- 
less these verses were imitative, immature, and 
hardly worth a second reading. Possibly there was 
just music enough in them to awaken a slight inter- 
est in the writer ; but it is more than likely that my 
local habitation, as viewed in the mind's eye, from 
beyond the sea, by one w^ho was at the time the 
subject of universal admiration, was the actual cause 
of her acknowledgment. 

The writer of this letter said that she imagined me 
an almost solitary singer in a remote corner of the 
earth; that she loved to think of me diligently cul- 
tivating a little garden in a vast desert; that I 
seemed to have had no inspiration but that of nature, 

137 



138 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

which was the best of all inspirations ; that she hoped 
I would keep my heart pure and my voice clear ; and 
she begged that I would ever remember what that 
marvellous philosopher, Marcus Aurelius, had writ- 
ten (she had just laid aside the volume of his 
thoughts), namely, an instrument that is left un- 
strung for a season can never again be kept in tune; 
and that she was my friend and well-wisher — 
George Eliot. 

How I cherished that charitable and charming 
letter until I had lost interest in my garden, or dis- 
covered in an unlucky hour that as a practical gar- 
dener I was not a monopolist ! Moreover, there were 
roses and sweetbriars enough in what may have 
seemed a desert to English eyes, but was overfruit- 
ful in reality and prodigal to a degree. 

Well, by and by I found myself in London. No 
sooner had I begun to regain my self-possession and 
to feel almost at home, than I grew suddenly enthusi- 
astic, and resolved to learn if possible something 
concerning the authors who are the subject of so 
much comment at a distance, but who are absolutely 
swallowed up in the tumultuous life of the immeas- 
urable and inexhaustible city. I had told a London 
acquaintance of my treasured autograph — the letter 
above referred to — and was rather astonished to 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 139 

hear that it would not be considered indelicate of me 
to call. I hesitated, notwithstanding the indisput- 
able fact that I was an American. I repeat I hesi- 
tated. I thought it over for three days and three 
nights, and then I wrote a brief note to the author 
of " Daniel Deronda," and awaited the result. An 
interval of several days followed, during which in- 
terest in authoresses increased and diminished. I had 
about resigned myself to destiny when the postman's 
rap seemed to have something prophetic in it, and so 
it had. A small letter was handed to me by the 
beaming landlady, who always delivered letters as 
if they were the specialties of her house, and no one 
could hope for letters under any roof but hers. A 
tiny envelope, quite like the old one filed away 
among the archives of my adolescence; small run- 
ning hand, very plain and neat; occasionally a line 
linking two words, where the tail of the 3; had been 
spun out and woven into the next word without 
breaking the thread, or where the cross of the t 
turned a back somersault and became the first h of 
a word following. Oh ! here is the letter : — 

" Blackbrook. 
" My dear Sir : — Your note has been forwarded 
to me in the country. We shall not be in town 



140 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

again for a fortnight; but if you are still there on 
Sunday, the i6th, and will call at the address which 
you know, I shall be happy to see you at any time 
between half-past two and five. 
'' I remain, sincerely yours, 

'' M. E. Lewes." 

Here was George Eliot again, but in this case she 
signed her letter with the name by which she was 
known among her friends. No reference to solitary 
gardens in far-off deserts by the windy sea — no 
Marcus Aurelius business now. I had outgrown 
that, and she had forgotten it long since. Sunday 
was slow a-coming. Friday, as is frequently the 
case, preceded it. With Friday came a postal-card 
bearing this legend : — 

" The Priory, Friday. 
" We shall be glad to see you on Sunday, — 
at least I shall be visible, though probably Mrs. 
Lewes may not, she being ill this week. If you are 
able to be in town Sunday week, that would be the 
better time to see Mrs. L. 

" George H. Lewes." 

Of course I waited till Sunday week. The Pro- 
fessor's autograph was carefully laid away with the 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 141 

other keepsakes of travel, and I took care to inquire 
of the proper authorities what would be expected of 
me on this august occasion. 

Opinions differed. Some thought that the auto- 
graph letters were forgeries, and that the whole thing 
was a stupendous joke; others, that I would prob- 
ably be allowed to enter the audience-chamber, cast 
one glance upon the lady, and would then be borne 
out of the rear entrance in a fainting condition. It 
was rumoured that she never received anybody less 
in rank and title than a duke ; and that no one spoke 
to her except through a middleman, who it was 
hinted was the Professor. 

The mildest statement concerning the Lewes 
reception shaped itself something in this fashion: 
You are admitted one by one ; you are passed from 
hand to hand until within a convenient distance of 
the hostess, who sits on a throne at the top of the 
room; you are then permitted to bow, say one or 
two brief sentences — which are of course prepared 
beforehand — and the next moment you are gently 
conducted to the rear, where you may stay or go as 
you please. Nothing but a genuine appreciation of 
the genius of George Eliot could have drawn me to 
the front door after the rumours which I heard 
from several sources — and these rumours, I assure 



142 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

you, I have scarcely exaggerated. In my heart I be- 
Heved that the customary suit of solemn black would 
be all that was required of me; as for the rest, I 
wanted to see her, — she could not possibly have had 
any interest in me, — so I went quietly, compla- 
cently, and, I trust, with sufficient modesty to have 
secured me a welcome at the hands of almost any 
stranger. 

It was Sunday at the Priory, North Bank, in the 
West End of the town. There was a garden wall of 
uncommon height, a massive gate within it, closed, 
as usual. On one side of the gate, in small letters, 
was this legend : " The Priory ; " on the other side 
the two bell-pulls for visitors and servants. x\bove 
the wall the upper half of the top windows of the 
Priory were just visible. I rang the visitors' bell 
and waited. The gate was unlocked mysteriously. 
I heard no footstep upon the gravel walk within, but 
the bolt slid back and the gate swung partly open 
through some invisible agency. I entered. At the 
farther end of the walk, on the steps before the main 
entrance to the Priory, stood a maid patiently await- 
ing my approach. Beautiful lawns spread about the 
dark walls of a house which looked as if it might 
easily, at some earlier period, have been the abode 
of a relisfious order. The foliag-e was not dense, but 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 143 

sufficient to embellish the spot. There was a notice- 
able lack of all superfluous ornamentation. The 
Priory was evidently an English home, the centre of 
domestic tranquillity. The maid disappeared with 
my card. 

I was left in a broad hall, the walls of which were 
lined with books, mostly stored on shelves just 
high enough to be serviceable; a few pictures hung 
above them ; a few terra-cotta casts — miniature 
reproductions of the antique — graced the apart- 
ment. Enter the Professor, a slender, nervous, 
scholarly-looking gentleman, who greeted me cor- 
dially as if I had been an old friend of the family. 
He led me at once into the long drawing-room, at 
that moment occupied by the hostess and one guest. 

" My dear," said the author of '' The History of 
Philosophy," a '' Life of Goethe," " Ranthorp," etc., 
"here is Mr. Stoddard!" 

I was led to an old-fashioned sofa that stood at 
one end of the room, some distance from the wall. 
My hand was held for a moment by a lady in very 
plain attire, who is thus vaguely described in Rout- 
ledge's " Men of the Time : " '' George Eliot, said 
to be the daughter of a clergyman, born about 1820." 

Somewhat to my surprise, I found her intensely 
feminine. Her slight figure, — it might almost be 



144 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

called diminutive, — her gentle, persuasive air, her 
constrained gesticulation, the low, sweet voice, — 
all were as far removed from the repulsive phe- 
nomenon, the '* man-woman," as it is possible to 
conceive. The brow alone seemed to betray her 
intellectual superiority. Her face reminded me 
somewhat of the portrait of Charlotte Bronte, with 
which every one is familiar. Yet there was no strik- 
ing similarity; I should rather say, the types of 
face and head are the same. When she crossed the 
room to call attention to a volume under discussion, 
she seemed almost like an invalid, and evidenced 
also an invalid's indifference to fashion and friv- 
olity in dress. The guest who sat careless, cross- 
wise in his chair, was Edward Burne- Jones, the pre- 
Raphaelite artist, of whom Swinburne sings: 

" Though the world of your hands be more gracious 

And lovelier in lordship of things, 
Clothed round by sweet art with the spacious 

Warm heaven of imminent wings. 
Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting, 

For the love of old loves and lost times; 
And receive in our palace of painting 

This revel of rhymes." 

Burne- Jones had evidently not arrayed himself 
for the occasion. He wore a blue merino shirt, 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 145 

collar and cuffs as blue as indigo, artist jacket, and 
a general every-day air that bordered on affectation. 
The conversation which I had interrupted was 
soon renewed, and it was better than a thousand 
books to hear the riches that these three souls lav- 
ished upon one another. Art, philosophy, the music 
of Wagner ; Rome ancient and Rome modern ; Flor- 
ence — how they all love Florence, and how they 
detest modern Rome! All English people seem to 
inherit the love of Florence. The conversation was 
presently interrupted again. Some one entered, and, 
having said his opening lines, withdrew to a chair 
and subsided. The artist departed; the artistic 
atmosphere grew thinner and thinner; the three 
who had been discoursing like prophets upon a 
mountain came down out of the high places ; and it 
was discovered that, after all, they were only a little 
more than ordinary when taken off their guard. 
Professor Lewes was the life of the circle, which 
increased as the reception hours drew to a close. 
Mrs. Lewes was always the same placid, self-poised, 
kind-hearted, womanly soul, who suffered no one 
present to feel neglected; for she took care to call 
the forlorn ones to her and distinguish them for a 
moment at least. Perhaps it is half-true, the strange 
story that I heard in all its variations; for there 



146 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

were those present who sat transfixed and gazed 
rapturously upon the creator of " Romola " and 
" Adam Bede." Every syllable she uttered sank into 
fertile hearts. They will spring up, blossom, and 
bear fruit — but not in this paper. 

It is said that there were note-books that went 
regularly to the Priory to gorge themselves with 
wisdom. It is said that the Professor dipped his 
pen into the pages of " Daniel Deronda." I know 
nothing of this. I can speak for the homely home 
that seemed almost bare, and for the homely hos- 
pitality, than which nothing could have been less 
pretentious. And if I had ever for a moment feared 
the fate that might await me at the Priory, the 
exquisite charm of the hostess, as she detained me 
to renew an invitation which was to embrace the 
entire season — each Sunday from 2.30 to 5 p. M. — 
was sufficient to dismiss me in the best of humours. 

I shall never forget the absolute repose of Mrs. 
Lewes, the deliberation with which she discussed the 
affairs of life, speaking always as if she were reveal- 
ing only about a tenth part of her knowledge upon 
the subject in question. With her it seemed as if 
the tides had all come in ; as if she had weathered 
the ultimate storm; as if the circumstance and not 
desire had swxpt her apart from her kind and left 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 147 

her isolated, the unrivalled mistress of all passionless 
experience. Sad days were in store for her. The 
death of Professor Lewes, and anon a second mar- 
riage that puzzled the world, and was brief and 
almost tragic in its close. 

The amiable Professor accompanied me to the 
door, and was so kind as to offer me a cigar of the 
very b^st brand. People, mild-eyed ladies with 
severely correct escorts, followed us, still dazed with 
the awfulness of their interview. A young woman, 
without escort, stalked solemnly up the gravel path, 
gurgled at the threshold, and passed into the pres- 
ence of the high-priestess. The Professor shook 
me warmly by the hand, and whispered : " That is 

Miss ; " but I failed to catch the name. I 

smiled knowingly, turned on my heel, and it was all 
over. 



CHARLES KINGSLEY AND 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY 



CHARLES KINGSLEY AND WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY 

FOR a single shilling you may drop in at the 
Aquarium, Westminster, in the forenoon and 
stay until midnight. You may investigate the 
life and customs of the finny tribes that revel in 
still water, forty thousand leagues under the sea. 
There is a museum at hand, reading and smoking 
rooms, a restaurant, perennial gardens, and foun- 
tains that play all the year round. The matin and 
evening sports present a continually varying bill : 
tumblers from the Parisian Circus, madrigal boys, 
ballets by baby dancers, hoitife singers, fancy shoot- 
ing by Texas Jacks and Buffalo Bills resplendent in 
buckskins and beadwork. 

The Aquarium is thronged from morning until 
midnight; it is a place of delights where, for the 
time, all worldly cares are forgotten, where the busy 
are comparatively idle, and where the idle are too 
busy to find time a burden. Passing into the street 
from the pleasure-house, we come at once upon a 

151 



152 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

glorious monument of the past. It is a massive, 
melancholy structure, all the angles of which seem 
to have been softened by time. It is wrinkled, be- 
grimed, weather-beaten, storm-stained, isolated. 
The great tower of Parliament House belittles it; 
the resistless tide of trade has swept down upon it, 
and thrown up a barricade of modern structures, 
that seem to have crowded it into a corner, to one 
side and out of the way. 

Beautiful old Westminster Abbey! Is there in 
all England or in all the earth a more serene retreat 
than one finds under the mellow Gothic heaven of 
your nave ? The sombre sunshine weaves its golden 
web among the thousand pendants that overarch us ; 
squares of painted light lie upon the marble pave- 
ment like fabrics from the far East; voices are in 
the air ; the solemn chant, the sweet responses from 
a hidden choir, and the organ breathes out its plain- 
tive harmonies, that seem for a moment to quicken 
the dead, and to instil life into the marble effigies 
that stare for ever from their niches in the walls. 

My friend and I, by appointment, were in search 
of Canon Kingsley at the cloisters, Westminster. 
We passed out of the Abbey toward the chapter- 
house in a kind of dream. It was like dropping from 
wakeful and feverish life into a deep sleep, coming 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 153 

from the festivities of the Aquarium directly to the 
Abbey. At the chapter-house we paused a moment ; 
for it was there that the Black Book was kept which 
sealed the fate of all the monasteries of England, 
including the Abbey of Westminster. But the reli- 
gious life which was for a time nearly extinct in 
Britain is reviving with astonishing rapidity, and 
the Black Book is obsolete. We followed the 
portico, finished a. d. 1253, from the chapter-house 
to the cloisters of different dates, from the time of 
the Confessor to Edward III. The original pave- 
ment is worn deep by the feet of the monks who 
have returned to dust beneath it. Here is the blue 
slab called '' Long Meg." It marks the grave of 
six and twenty monks, and Abbot Byrcheston with 
them, who perished of the plague known as the 
Black Death in 1349. Here also are the graves of 
Edwin, first abbot; and Monk Sulcardun, the first 
historian of the Abbey. Owen Tudor, uncle of 
Henry VII., and son of Queen Katherine of Valois, 
was a monk and is buried in the Abbey. The green 
grass-plots in the cloisters are enriched with the 
bones of the monks. The abbots were buried in the 
long arcades. There are sermons enough in these 
stones — but what does it profit ? The world is 
older than it was and considerably deafer. 



154 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

With many a turn we come at last to a row of 
modest dwellings. Entering one of these we were 
welcomed by Miss Kingsley, and ushered at once 
into a pleasant room where the table was laid for 
dinner. There was a blessed absence of formality, 
a simple and hearty welcome. Canon Kingsley's 
table-talk sparkled with lively anecdotes, chiefly per- 
sonal. A man of nervous organisation, animated, 
personally interested in the topics of the time, he 
glowed with enthusiasm and struck fire repeatedly, 
though he was then in ill-health and burdened with 
many cares. He looked forward with delight to his 
anticipated tour in America; wondered what sort 
of lecture the Americans would prefer; wondered 
how we managed to get over such great distances 
and keep engagements at the farther end. He 
seemed to look upon life in the United States as a 
curious problem. Most Englishmen who have not 
visited our country regard us as a race but half- 
developed, each citizen being the surprising, not to 
say unaccountable, result of a stupendous experi- 
ment. Canon Kingsley, with two members of his 
family In America, with a mind which was ever a 
great explorer, though most pf his travelling was 
done in his study, was by no means ungenerous in 
his estimate of our affairs. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 155 

After the wholesome EngHsh dinner we Hghted 
cigars; Canon Kingsley was confined to the medi- 
cated cigarette, which is supposed to discourage the 
bronchial disorder from which he was a sufferer. 
We entered a small garden by the bow-window of 
the dining-room. The row of dwellings that front 
upon a narrow street behind the Abbey — they are 
veritable double-enders — front again upon a great 
gray square, surrounded by a wall that would do 
credit to Newgate. 

A few tall trees border the enclosure; a few 
statues are placed by the paths that straggle across 
the close-clipped lawn. The grass is like most 
London grass — rather brown than green. Above 
the wall there are rows of house-tops, surmounted 
by files of chimney-pots. On one side is the Abbey, 
beyond which the gilded tower-top of Parliament 
House gleams in the murky sky. On the other side 
is the high wall of Westminster School. Here we 
walked up and down, to and fro, under leafless trees, 
— for it was winter, — smoking placidly, stopping 
now and again to hear the veritable tale of some 
monk or abbot who distinguished himself centuries 
ago on the very spot where w^e stood. 

We heard again the oft-repeated story of the skins 
like parchment nailed to the door of the Chapel of 



156 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

St. Blaise. But the chapel is gone and the proof 
of the skin-story is gone with it. Tradition says 
those were the skins of the Danes tanned and sur- 
rendered in token of England's deliverance from the 
sea-kings. Canon Kingsley seemed to have a story 
for every stone in the place. Ah! if he could only 
have written the romance of the Abbey, loving it as 
he did, with a love that was almost idolatrous! In 
the house — that cosy and unpretentious home — he 
pointed with pride to the well-preserved head of a 
huge bison — a trophy sent him from the great 
plains of America. 

I thought of the measureless melancholy of the 
first pages in " Hypatia." I wondered if he would 
have pictured the Nile so vividly if he had known 
it in reality. I am inclined to doubt it; nor would 
the picturesque fury of the Amazons have coloured 
the adventures of Amias Leigh had the author, in 
body instead of spirit, cried, " Westward ho! " in the 
wake of his hero. The interest which our host evi- 
dently felt in every subject relating to the welfare 
of his fellow men prevented his speaking much of 
himself, but the impression which he left on my 
mind assures me that as a man he must have fulfilled 
to the very letter the promise of his youth. 

Though enfeebled by his long, arduous, and in- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 157 

cessant labours, his manly bearing betrayed his 
origin. Born of a race of soldiers, from his father's 
side he inherited his love of art, his sporting tastes, 
his fighting blood; from his mother's side his love 
of travel, the romance of his nature, and his keen 
sense of humour. He referred to his school-life as 
" the dreamy days," when he knew and worshipped 
nothing but the physical ; when his enjoyment was 
drawn from the sensuous delights of ear and eye. 
The poetic temperament developed at an extremely 
early age. He made couplets in his fourth year and 
the verses which he produced at the age of eight 
are singularly quaint and musical. I could easily 
imagine him in the moods of which he has written : 
" The strange dilatation and excitement, and the 
often strange tenderness and tears without object." 
At Cambridge it was the same. He was likened 
to his own Lancelot in " Yeast " — sad, shy, and 
serious habitually, yet a bold rider, a bold thinker, 
and a chivalrous gentleman; one moment brilliant 
and impassioned, the next reserved and unapproach- 
able; by turns attracting and repelling. His mind 
was like a mettlesome steed : the more he curbed it, 
the more will it had to go. This nervous energy 
must inevitably exhaust itself at intervals, and hence 
the variable moods that have doubtless perplexed 



158 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

some of his easy-going fellows. That he had wis- 
dom beyond his years he has evidenced again and 
again in his writings. No one will question the 
deep interest he felt in the labour question. The 
bettering of the condition of the common people 
was one of the motives of his life. In 1846 the 
walls of London were placarded with an appeal to 
the ** Workmen of England." I quote but a single 
paragraph to show how the labour question was 
viewed in those days. 

" Workers of England : — Be wise, and then 
you must be free; for you will be fit to be free. 

" A Working Parson." 

That working parson was Charles Kingsley. 

Tlie same sports which were the joy of the canon's 
youth were the consolation of his age. In his forti- 
eth year he said : " My amusement is green fields 
and clear trout streams, and a gallop through the 
winter fir woods." And much later, in a letter 
showing how the duties and the pleasures of life 
were met, — the former no doubt lost much of their 
solemnity by frequent repetition, — he gallops over 
his paper in this style : " Now good-bye ! I have 
a funeral, and then I must go and catch some pike 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 159 

trout. I had my usual luck yesterday evening — 
killed a little one and lost a huge one." 

With a mind as healthful as his it is not a little 
strange that the professor of Hebrew in Oxford 
should oppose the conferring of the honorary 
degree of D. C. L. on Kingsley, on the ground that 
** Hypatia " was " an immoral book," one calculated 
to encourage young men in profligacy and false doc- 
trine. His mission lay nearer home, among the 
people whose cause he pleads so nobly in " Alton 
Lock ; " nor did he need to seek other fields for 
inspiration than those that border the green lanes 
of England. 

While we chatted we heard the shouts of boys at 
play. Long ago in the western cloister the master 
of novices taught a class which was the beginning 
of the famous Westminster School. Lusty lungs 
rent the air in the ball-court over the wall : English 
boys descended from generations of beef-fed Brit- 
ishers. There was silence at intervals during the 
day. The school hours were from 8 to 9, from 10 
to 12.30, and from 3 to 5.30. In the large dormi- 
tory, which was originally tenanted by monks, the 
Westminster plays, in the original of Plautus or 
Terence, are acted by the boys each December, with 
scenery designed by Garrick. The most famous 



i6o EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

master of the school was Doctor Busby — Heaven 
save us ! Among the pupils were the poets Herbert 
and Cowley (the latter published a volume of poems 
while at school), Dryden and Prior; Philosopher 
Locke, Warren Hastings, Ben Jonson, Sir Chris- 
topher Wren, Cowper, Southey, Gibbon, and others. 
Dryden's name is still visible, cut on one of the desks 
in narrow capital letters. 

When we left the cloisters it was sunset. The 
canon led us again into the Abbey, where the nave 
was flooded with that weird light which seems not 
of the earth and is but momentary. The long, low 
thunders of the world without broke at the sacred 
doors, which were at that moment closed to all save 
ourselves. We had indeed found sanctuary, but 
only for a little season. We hastened forth, and 
were instantly swallowed up in the eddies of the 
ceaseless tide of London life. We paused a moment 
at a neighbouring station — our host was then has- 
tening to his well-beloved parish of Eversley. We 
clasped hands in the midst of the surging throng, 
looked into the kindly face of Charles Kingsley, and 
parted to meet in this life — never again. 



THE PASHA OF JERUSALEM 



4 



THE PASHA OF JERUSALEM 

FROM the convent windows we looked upon 
the Via Dolorosa and all the domed roofs 
of Jerusalem. These domes were of gray stone 
covered with cement; they appeared as if they were 
powdered with a light fall of snow. To the left 
was St. Stephen's Gate, opening upon the Valley 
of Jehoshaphat and the Mount of Olives ; close to it 
loomed the walls that surround the field of the 
Mosque of Omar. The dome of the mosque, re- 
splendent in the sun as the breast of a peacock, 
towered above all, flanked with a few aged cypresses. 
On our right the city clustered about Calvary, and 
the Church of the Holy Sepulchre that crowns it. 
Before us rose the gentle acclivities of Mount Zion, 
the Armenian quarters of the Holy City. Our situa- 
tion could not be bettered; but we were tired, 
hungry, bewildered, and a little bored. 

Our polyglot, a youth of two and twenty, who 
charmed us at Jaffa and clung to our party until we 
went all to pieces in Beirut several weeks later — 

163 



i64 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

he who spoke, read, and wrote Latin, EngHsh, 
French, German, ItaHan, Spanish, Arabic, Turkish, 
Persian, and modern Greek with almost equal 
facility ; who performed on the parlour organ at the 
shortest possible notice ; who wore a fez and Hessian 
boots and a bangle of immense proportions; who 
was as ingenuous as a child, a semi-convert to Islam- 
ism, and never went forth unless accompanied by 
a pipe-bearer (the latter was suffered not to let the 
fire go out upon the altar of the nargileh, lest the soul 
of the polyglot might on the instant crave this great- 
est of Turkish delights, and finding it not at hand, 
perish in his tracks), — the polyglot having dis- 
patched a letter, the engrossment of which in pure 
Arabic would have delighted the poetic eye of 
Musle-Huddeen Shiek Saadi, of Shiraz, a monk 
suddenly entered, and at his request we repaired to 
a supper of bread and broth in the refectory. 

It was Lent, and of course the fare was very light. 
After supper, returning to the reception-room, the 
polyglot pumped Strauss's waltzes out of a parlour 
organ until the abbot sent him a polite request to 
close the instrument until Easter, which he did with 
a bang that resounded to the chapel at the extreme 
end of the building. 

Anon, the nargileh! it is the life and the light 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 165 

of the East — it is always apropos. We gathered in 
the cosiest corner of the room. We clapped our 
hands : a servant who was nodding in the hall entered 
and at once began preparing the pipes. He placed 
a crystal vase before each of us; it was mounted 
with fretted silver, and was topped with an elabor- 
ately gilded earthen bowl. From its neck, the snake- 
like stem, a fathom long, wound with threads of gold 
and silver, stretched to the lips, upon which rested 
a mouthpiece of clouded amber. The vase was half- 
filled with rose-water, and in each vase a few fresh 
rose-leaves were sopped in this water. The pipe- 
bearer then took a handful of tumbak (a mild, sweet 
Persian weed), plunged it into a basin of water, 
and wrung it out like a sponge. We regarded with 
curious eyes the preparation — so would you. The 
tumbak is still damp ; he presses it into the pipe-bowl 
and heaps it up, making a little nest in the centre of 
it. Then a live coal is placed in the nest, where it 
sends up a thin, fragrant steam. Now we throw 
ourselves back upon the cushions of the divan; we 
place upon our lips the superb amber mouthpiece, 
three or four inches in length, and carved or girdled 
with hoops of gold. We exhaust our lungs and 
draw in through the glittering coils of the stem 
volumes of cool, deodorised smoke. 



i66 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

If this smoke has any flavour it is not that of 
tobacco; it is much finer, sweeter, more cleHcate. 
Is it the rose-water through which the smoke has 
passed by means of a tube that extends from the 
base of the bowl nearly to the bottom, and then 
rises in bubbles like snowballs and enters the flexi- 
ble stem near the throat of the vase? Or is it the 
moist tumbak, exuding some subtle essence under 
the hot breath of the glowing coals? Or is it only 
a fancy that possesses one when the nargileh is well 
lighted and the pipe-bearer sits by, watching it as if 
life hung upon the consummation of this solitary 
smoke? Occasionally he probes the bowl or places 
fresh coals within it, and then he smiles as the white 
clouds pour forth in immense volumes and fill the 
chamber with the incense of the Orient. The in- 
halation is complete; one breathes the smoke of 
tumbak as he breathes the very air; the bosom 
heaves like the rise and fall of a great wave at sea. 
You imagine you are doubling your inches across 
the chest — a pleasurable thrill is communicated to 
every nerve in the body. You flood your whole 
interior with smoke. A happy thought strikes you 
— you laugh, and the cloud that is discharged from 
your mouth is like smoke belched from a cannon. 

There is something suggestive of intoxication 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 167 

in all this. The water bubbles in the cistern of the 
pipe; the rose-leaves tumble about and delight the 
eye; the gurgle soothes the ear; the palate is en- 
chanted with long draughts of impalpable essence 
from a source that seems inexhaustible. " Drinking 
smoke," the Arabs call it; it is the only term they 
use to express the act. And pray why should they 
not drink it, when it has been tried by fire, filtered 
in a bath of roses, chilled in its flight through that 
writhing stem, and slid at last through a handful 
of glowing amber? 

We were quietly discussing this, when, unan- 
nounced, a sleek Oriental, in the semi-European offi- 
cial dress, rushed into the room and into the arms 
of the polyglot, who embraced him madly and kissed 
him rapturously on both cheeks. It was the boy's 
old master, summoned in all haste by the impetuous 
pupil after a separation of some years. As soon 
as they were able to control somewhat their pro- 
found emotion, we rose and were presented infor- 
mally to Yussef Effendi, Pasha of Jerusalem. The 
pipes were refilled; small cups of black coffee, 
thickened with dregs, were offered us. For an hour 
we conversed in the liveliest manner. 

Yussef Effendi, a native of Jerusalem, born to 
the honourable office which he fills with graceful 



i68 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

indifference, has seen many lands, and grown famil- 
iar with many peoples and many tongues. Some 
years ago he grew restless, and, leaving his affairs 
in the hands of a friend, set out to see the world. 
He acquired English in London, French in Paris, 
German in Vienna. It was w4iile in Vienna loung- 
ing among the cafes that he fell in with the polyglot, 
then a student in the Oriental College. The regents 
of that institution, hearing of the sojourn of the 
distinguished Pasha in their fascinating city, and 
perhaps realising how attractive that capital is to 
all natives of the East, persuaded him to accept a 
chair in the college, which he filled to repletion. Pie 
was Oriental in every sense of the word. To the 
highest breeding he added a charming flow of spirits, 
checked only by the poetic languor of his race. 
With the feminine refinement which distinguishes 
the descendants of the Prophet, and is not entirely 
wanting in the fellaheen, though the yoke of per- 
petual bondage has hardened them somewhat, he 
made even the ladies of the party seem brusque; and 
as for the men, we were positively brutal in com- 
parison. 

I have often wondered whether the travels of 
Yussef Effendi were the unmaking of his faith in 
things terrestrial and celestial. Certain it is that 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 169 

this Pasha, who inherited with his honourable office 
the fanaticism of the Moslem, became afterward 
Christian, and has ended with infidelity and cyni- 
cism, which but for the diverting humour of the 
man would be intolerable. When we parted that 
night we were sworn friends. Again the Pasha and 
the polyglot fell upon each other's necks, and recited 
the litany of parting in one of the romantic tongues, 
but whether Arabic, Turkish, or Persian we were 
not able to decide. From that hour we were chap- 
eroned by the Pasha of Jerusalem. Agreeable as 
this was in some respects, it was not without its 
disadvantages. Wherever we went Yussef Effendi 
was greeted with profound salaams. As we passed, 
a group of natives bowled low, gathered a handful 
of imaginary dust, pressed it to their lips and to 
their foreheads; and then with the hand upon the 
heart, they bowed once more, — all this time bab- 
bling Arabic gutturals, and looking as if they felt 
that they had not lived in vain, inasmuch as the 
Pasha had done them the honour to snub them more 
or less gracefully. 

The Pasha is, withal, a Bohemian. He had 
planned an excursion to Bethlehem by a circuitous 
route, across fields and through olive groves. We 
rode out of St. Stephen's Gate, and found the Valley 



ijo EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

of Jehoshaphat thronged with white-robed women 
and parti-coloured men, who were anxiously await- 
ing the arrival of a caravan of famous dervishes. 
Ascending the hill toward Bethany, we all dis- 
mounted and sat by the roadside, looking down upon 
Jerusalem with anxious eyes. Over this very road 
the Redeemer must have passed scores of times. 
Not very many years ago a withered fig-tree stood 
just under the brow of the hill, — a tree that was 
pointed out as being identical with the barren tree 
ni Scripture. Doubtless the relic-hunters carried it 
away piecemeal. The Pasha's friends greeted him, 
as they passed to and fro, with as much dignity as 
if he were sitting in the seat of the scornful instead 
of squatting on the ground. When the caravan 
arrived, with weird music and sacred banners and 
oriflammes fluttering gaily, we dropped down into 
the bed of the Kedron and struck over into the corn- 
fields. Everywhere Yussef Effendi, who was self- 
constituted guide, philosopher, and friend, delivered 
discourses upon the shrines we were visiting in rapid 
succession; his tongue never ceased until we found 
ourselves seated at a well-filled board in a Greek 
monastery, with a learned monk entertaining us. 
You would have thought the Pasha a Greek so long 
as our host was within hearing. The bread of 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 171 

Bethlehem, Hke great pale pancakes, was washed 
down with rose-water; and we resumed our pil- 
grimage under the patronage of the chameleon 
Pasha, who turned Latin in compliment to us the mo- 
ment we had crossed the threshold of the convent. 

The Pasha never appeared to better advantage 
than on one occasion when he led us to a cafe which 
was his special preference. A balcony overhung one 
of the narrow and ill-paved streets; there was a 
continual procession of pilgrims passing to and from 
the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; camels, with 
swart Nubian drivers, crowded upon the heels of 
richly caparisoned Arabian mares. Every nation 
under heaven seemed represented in the perpetual 
pageant beneath our lattice. 

We turned from all this splendour at intervals 
to sip coffee impregnated with the odour of amber- 
gris, from cups perfumed with mastic. In a brazier 
near us smoked frankincense, benzoin, and aloes 
wood. When we grew weary of this, an incense boy 
swung his censer before us; we were enveloped in 
odoriferous clouds. At the door the master awaited 
us with silver scent-bottles, which he shook vigor- 
ously, and we withdrew under a light shower of 
orange-flower water. 

It was on our last evening together, when 



172 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

we were strolling among the gloomy and de- 
serted bazars, that the Pasha won our hearts. 
Silent pilgrims, swathed in voluminous robes, 
stalked like spectres among the shadows ; dim lamps 
swung over the streets; from the barred casements 
floated the melancholy refrains of those semi-bar- 
baric songs so popular with the music-loving people. 
Overhead the large stars throbbed in mid-air, seem- 
ing to hang much closer to the earth than in our less 
favoured clime. Sometimes we stumble over the 
debris in the dark and ill-kept streets. We were 
talking of our departure on the morrow. The 
Pasha had lost all his mirth; he was urging us to 
delay — to tarry yet a little in the shelter of the 
Holy of the Holies — and we were saddened at the 
thought of parting. 

Suddenly we were startled by a shriek that rang 
through the dark arches of the bazars, and awoke 
echoes in the deserted chambers of the Muristan — 
the ancient monastery of the Knights of St. John. 
The whole city seemed to waken on the instant; a 
thousand dogs howled in chorus. We hastened for- 
ward, not knowing which way to turn. Following 
the swift feet of some who were pressing forward, 
we came upon a Greek cafe in an uproar. These 
Greeks are as treacherous as tigers. A dispute had 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 173 

ended in a brawl that rendered futile the eftorts of 
several gendarmes. The mob increased ; the tumult 
extended to the street; the noise was deafening; 
fragments of furniture flew through the air, — it 
was war to the death. With a quick impulse, Yussef 
Effendi forced his way into the thickest of the fight. 
With a single word he parted the contestants ; and, 
placing a hand upon the shoulders of the chief 
rioters, he led them to the street, crying to one, " Go 
you that way ! " and to the other, '' Go you that 
way ! " in the opposite direction. Meek as lambs, 
but with eyes still flashing, the Greeks kissed his 
hand and departed, speechless. The gendarmes then 
saluted him in like manner, and were followed by 
many of the bystanders. 

Deep silence once more descended upon the city. 
We repaired to our convent in dumb wonderment. 
" They are my children," observed Haroun al 
Raschid, as we paused at the threshold of the holy 
house; then, overcome w^ith admiration of his 
master, the polyglot fell upon the Pasha's neck, and 
dissolved in tears. This w^as an anti-climax ; for the 
same tableau was necessarily repeated on the morrow 
at the city gate, when, with genuine regret, we bade 
a final farewell to Yussef Effendi, Pasha of Jeru- 
salem. 



CONCERNING AN OLD AUSTRALIAN 



CONCERNING AN OLD AUSTRALIAN 

NEARLY four-score years ago a work entitled 
"Orion — an Epic Poem in Three Books" 
made its appearance in London. It was offered 
to the pubHc for a farthing-, and at this aston- 
ishing price three large editions were disposed 
of. A fourth edition was issued and sold at a shil- 
ling, a fifth at half a crown. The same poem has 
been recently issued in London in a choice edition, 
and the poet who has survived the vicissitudes of a 
life very far from the commonplace, though his work 
is so little known, may console himself with the 
assurance that he has produced one of the noblest 
poems in the language. 

Even so peevish a critic as Edgar Allan Poe is 
roused to the greatest enthusiasm, and having, as 
was his custom, handled his subject and all the 
critics of the subject savagely and with unmistakable 
spleen, he concludes his criticism with this passage : 
" ' Orion ' will be admitted by every man of genius 
to be one of the noblest, if not the very noblest, 

177 



178 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

poetical work of the age. Its defects are trivial and 
conventional — its beauties intrinsic and supreme." 

The author, Richard Hengist Home, has pub- 
lished also in verse, " Cosmo de Medici," an his- 
torical tragedy, the tragedy, " Gregory the Sev- 
enth," and " The Death of Marlowe," a tragedy 
in one act; together with miscellaneous poems. 
" Gregory the Seventh " is prefaced with an " Essay 
on Tragic Influence." Home has also published a 
volume of critical essays on his literary contempo- 
raries, entitled " A New Spirit of the Age," and 
in it he proves himself to be no mean follower of 
Hazlitt. 

At this moment a copy of his essays falls open 
before me, and I find in his paper on Dickens that 
he calls attention to the rhythmical prose of that 
writer, and compares it to the irregular metres some- 
times adopted by Shelley, and more especially by 
Southey. See how Home prints Dickens line for 
line, betraying the versified prose — it takes a poet 
to catch a poet. The following is from the con- 
cluding paragraphs of " Nicholas Nickleby '* : — 



The grass was green above the dead boy's grave, 

Trodden by feet so small and light, 
That not a daisy dropped its head 

Beneath their pressure. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 179 

Through all the spring and summer time 
Garlands of fresh flowers, wreathed by infant hands, 
Rested upon the stone." 



This is rather tame writing in comparison with 
'' Orion," though Home praises Dickens for the 
melody and the beauty of such passages. 

In " Orion " the hero is introduced at sunrise, 
with the noise of the chase stirring in the thicket. 

" Suddenly 
Along the broad and sunny slope appeared 
The shadow of a stag that fled across, 
Followed by a giant's shadow with a spear." 

When the happiness of Orion is attained, the poet 
embodies the sentiment in this picture : — 

"There underneath the boughs, mark where the gleam 
Of sunrise thro' the roofing's chasm is thrown 
Upon a grassy plot below, whereon 
The shadow of a stag stoops to the stream 
Swift rolling toward the cataract, and drinks. 
Throughout the day unceasingly it drinks, 
While ever and anon the nightingale, 
Not waiting for the evening, swells his hymn, 
His one sustained and heaven-aspiring tone. 
And when the sun hath vanished utterly, 
Arm over arm the cedars spread their shade. 
With arching wrists and long extended hands. 
And grass-ward fingers lengthening in the moon, 
Above that shadow stag, whose antlers still 
Hang o'er the stream." 



i8o EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

Poe says of this passage : " There is nothing more 
richly, more weirdly, more chastely, more sublimely 
imaginative in the rich realm of poetical literature." 

In another place, after copious quotations from 
the more tragic portions of '' Orion," he adds : 
" The description of hell in ' Paradise Lost ' is alto- 
gether inferior in graphic effect, in originality, in 
expression, in the true imagination, to these magnifi- 
cent, to these unparalleled passages." 

The sensation of the hour, the companion of the 
best spirits of the land, a poet whose laurels were 
gained at the first grasp, what did the poet do ? He 
shook the dust of the metropolis from his feet and 
buried himself in the wilds of Australia — was he 
not a searcher after shadows, like the hero of his 
epic? It was during this exile that a common friend 
made me acquainted by letter with the poet. I 
offered him a copy of my first book, a windfall of 
verses now happily out of print — but the book itself 
was a credit to the printer, Edward Bosqui, of San 
Francisco. A very kind letter of acknowledgment 
came home to me. I have it not by me at this mo- 
ment, but I remember the writer addressed me as a 
retired poet would be most likely to address a novice. 
I fancied I could detect a tinge of sadness in the 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES i8i 

man ; I was encouraged in the belief by a line of the 
letter which ran thus : — 

'' I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, 
but it has been melted by adversity and false friend- 
ship." 

There he was with the world at his feet, or as 
much of it as can focus at any given point, and he 
self-banished to a wilderness wherein the once fes- 
tive dodo or its cousin skipped. This slight ac- 
quaintanceship culminated in an exchange of photo- 
graphs ; he sent me a small medallion picture, a head 
that was as grave-looking as Confucius, with its thin 
fringe of hair coiled in ringlets like those of a Polish 
Jew. 

He dismissed the subject of our dual existence for 
just seven years. Arriving in London with a line 
of reintroduction, I forwarded it to the author of 
" Orion," who had been wooed back to Britain from 
the antipodes. A reply came speedily; on the back 
of the envelope were four lines, a kind of fraternal 
welcome, if I may so call it. The first and second 
lines were my own, a quotation from the obsolete 
volume, which I will kindly refrain from reproduc- 
ing. The third and fourth lines were by the author 
of " Orion," who matched his rhymes to mine, and 
crowned me with quotation marks. He wrote me 



i82 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

from Northumberland Street, York Gate, Regent's 
Park, and said : — 

" Your note has just reached me on my return to 
town. ... I have just pubUshed with Geo. Rivers, 
Aldine Chambers, Paternoster Row, a remodelled 
and interpolated edition of my tragedy of ' Cosmo 
de Medici ; ' and wishing to have not only an 8vo 
edition uniform with ' Orion,' but an edition de 
luxe, in the French style, it is a curious coincidence 
that among various books I wished to look at, with 
a view to special title-pages, I bethought me of your 
volume, so kindly forwarded to me from San Fran- 
cisco, August 1 8th, 1868, and here we are in London, 
August 1 8th, 1875, and your book lies before me. 
There we were, and here we are; a problem of life 
and a subject for a poem taken in the broadest sense 
and one with a touch of the spiritualistic." 

A day and an hour were appointed when he would 
surely be in his chambers, and in due season I went 
thither. 

Northumberland Street consists of a double row 
of houses all alike, with two-storied fronts of smoked 
brick and about four steps, leading in every case 
to a dark door with a ponderous knocker of wrought 
iron. I gave the g-entleman's knock at No. 7, a 
knock which begins with a tattoo not unlike tlie 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 183 

chattering of teeth shaken with ague, and concludes 
with one decisive thump that is audible far down 
the block. A maid admitted me, and directed me 
to the chambers of the poet, at the top of the hall 
stairs. Again I knocked, but this time with my 
knuckles ; the author of " Orion " opened to me, 
and led me cordially into an apartment which was 
in a state of wild confusion; the room looked as 
if it had just been moved into, and the poet apolo- 
gised and asked me to take a glass of claret with 
him. He rinsed the glass in a little cupboard at the 
side of the chimney, standing with his head deep 
in the cupboard and talking all the time. Then he 
chipped the wax from the bottle, and drew the cork 
with the greatest ease. We touched glasses and 
drank. When we subsided in more tranquil dis- 
cussion, Home sat in a large easy chair, with a 
buffalo skin thrown over the back of it, and three 
plumes of pampas grass towering above his head. 
The ribbon-like leaves fell over his face. He looked 
highly Druidical, with his snow-white ringlets and 
the slant-wise droop of his eyelids. He was a fleshy, 
fresh-looking, yet colourless, little gentleman, of 
great physical strength, who ate sparingly and 
drank with caution for fear of increasing his bulk; 
a man who leaned upon life with the sunny affection 



i84 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

that idealises everything, even the most common- 
place; was half a "spiritualist," but stopped there 
because, to quote his words, '* you can prove nothing 
definitely." 

He was never idle; he led me into his sleeping- 
room that I might see from the window how he had 
reared a grape-vine in six months' time. The day 
previous he had spent seven hours on a ladder train- 
ing a neglected Virginia creeper upon a wall at the 
rear of the garden. It was now spread like a green 
fern with every tendril carefully secured. A famous 
swimmer, he paid his regular visit to the neigh- 
bouring baths, and his aquatic gambols were the 
admiration of the natives. 

His large room was like a workshop. The table 
and desk were littered with papers ; nothing within 
reach was in order; on the walls hung a pair of 
oils, flower pieces by French masters of the last 
century. There were also a half-dozen admirable 
etchings of ancient Rome and Paestum, and a fine 
copy of Raphael's head of Homer. His own marble 
medallion hung over his head ; a bronze copy was in 
the reception-room. There were but few books 
visible, and very little in fact to give a homelike 
atmosphere to the place; even the garden seemed 
uncommonly out-of-doors. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 185 

The recent reissue of his tragedy, " Cosmo de 
Medici," had showered upon him the congratula- 
tions of the best minds in England. He was not a 
little flattered at having received an autograph letter 
from the Princess Louise, as well as others from the 
Marquis of this and the Earl of that, and from the 
chief proprietor of The Times. 

I could not help thinking of his Australian life 
and \vondering if he ever longed for it or regretted 
it. He laughed carelessly when I mentioned the 
subject and said it was an affair of the past. It 
was probably the result of a mood which he had out- 
lived. He thought it more likely that he would 
settle in France, having no desire to see Australia 
again. 

He brought me the volume of my verses which I 
had sent him, and I found in the margin several of 
his pencilled alterations. He offered them as sug- 
gestions. It would seem from this, coupled with the 
interpretation and revision of his own works, that 
his mind was of that order that cannot rest. Since 
perfection is scarcely within reach, there is little 
danger of one doing one's work too well, though 
the elaboration be constant and unending. I remem- 
ber he made an alteration in one of my stanzas, 
which ran originally as follows: — 



x36 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

" White caravans of cloud go by 
Through the bhie desert of the sky; 
And burly winds are following 
The trailing pilgrims as they fly 
O'er the grassy hills of Spring." 

He recommended that " airy hills " be substituted 
for " grassy hills," as being more in harmony with 
the general vapoury and unsubstantial nature of 
the picture in the stanza. He was probably always 
perfecting his own lines, admirable as they were 
when they first flowed from his pen. 

The crowning work of his life he withheld from 
the world out of consideration for his friends at 
court, through whose efforts he had been pensioned. 
At parting he gave me a copy of " Cosmo de 
Medici," with an inscription. Seeing a collection 
of short poems at the end of the volume, I turned 
to them at once, when he said, rather curtly, " Don't 
do that, never open a book at the back!" There 
are some readers who never get into a book any 
other way. 

Probably no man who successfully develops any 
one talent but believes in his heart that his part lies 
in another line. Home was passionately fond of 
guitar playing, and was a marvellously skilful per- 
former upon that ungrateful instrument. I didn't 
hear him play; I couldn't, because he immediately 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 187 

afterward left town on a visit to France, where he 
was to be the guest of some branch of the House of 
Bonaparte. Such a visit is perhaps even more pleas- 
ant than guitar strumming, unless one is a miracu- 
lous strummer. 

I saw the author of '' Orion " no more. He had 
been most successfully transplanted from the bush 
of Australia to the clover and violets of Belgravia. 
He had not been idle. The latest book with which 
his name is associated is a collection of letters 
addressed to him by his long-time friend, Elizabeth 
Barrett Browning. 

If there is a fashion in poetry, as there undoubt- 
edly is in painting, when the public has gone the 
rounds and returned to a wholesome love of the 
noblest and purest verse in the language, the name 
of Richard Hengist Home will revive and stand 
against that of any poet of his day. 

He has written a mass for his soul, in which he 
prays that he " may never know rest." 

The bounding imagination of this poet I can 
compare to nothing more appropriately than the 
storm of which he sings in a sublime frenzy. He 
says of the " great tempest : " 

" Thy madness is a music that brings calm into my central 
soul." 



i88 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

But the calm is brief, and anon that soul takes wing : 

"Ascending swift — 
Stormward, then swooping down the hemisphere 
Upon the lengthening javelins of the blast." 

This is the song he sang and continued to sing until 
descended upon his heart — his line again — 

" Midnight, tremendous silence and iron sleep ! " 



LA CONTESSA 



J 



LA CONTESSA 

SUDDENLY, in desperation, we took tickets 
for Rome, and turned our backs on all the 
unspeakable, not to say unmentionable, delights 
of Naples. Of course we looked back. M. began 
it, for she is a woman and knows how; I fol- 
lowed suit, not unwillingly. And there lay Capri, 
just over our shoulders, a rose-tinted island swim- 
ming in a sapphire sea. M. dropped a big tear in 
her lap; I sighed like a furnace. The next turn 
in the road shut us both up, and slid a long spur of 
the mountains in between us and the delicious, heart- 
breaking past. 

The twilight gathered rapidly. At 6 p. m., 
through the dusk, I saw the lights in the great con- 
vent of Monte Casino twinkle like golden stars on 
the crest of the mountain. I turned to the window 
and yearned visibly; then M. said, with some 
severity : " You shall not go there and make a fool 
of yourself; I am settled on this point!" So we 
went to the capital, as we had intended doing from 

191 



192 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

the first. It was lo p. m., when we rolled into dark, 
dismal, rainy Rome. There were queer smells in 
the hotel, and a dull company gathered at a late 
supper, with scarcely appetite enough to go round. 

Then came days as tedious as sleepless nights, and 
nights as noisy as any day ever dares to be. M. 
had to be housed to her satisfaction, which she was 
ultimately. I lounged about after that, dodging 
my old friends, because Rome was too much for me 
and always had been. I never liked it; I had re- 
turned against my will for M.'s sake, and now I was 
enduring torments without the small satisfaction of 
saucing back. 

At this moment enter Eugenio, artist, good fel- 
low, and ancient Roman, who knows the ins and 
outs of the mildewed city, and loves every stone in 
it. Says Eugenio : " Why don't you take apart- 
ments and settle down for the winter? " I scorned 
to reply, having no earthly reason for not doing 
exactly as he suggested. With that Eugenio, treat- 
ing my scorn with spurn, seized me by the arm, led 
me down the street, across the Piazza Barberini, 
under the fine spray of the Triton who blows his 
shell in all weathers, and up the Via Degli Quattro 
Fontane, to a strange house above the Barberini 
Palace on the opposite side of the street. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 193 

In the uninviting doorway sat the customary cob- 
bler, a hunchback, ill-visaged, unclean — such a one 
as Victor Hugo would have made a devil of. We 
passed with the usual greeting, and buried ourselves 
in a chaos of thick shadows, stone stairs, and the 
fumes of boiling cabbage. I said nothing. I only 
thought and suffered. A little more light on the 
subject at the first landing; two doors, two heavy 
bell-ropes, and stairs of stone that went up into 
space. We rang violently. A cheerful but unlovely 
female screamed at us from a hole in the roof. 

Eugenio formed a treaty, and we were admitted 
without delay to a blue chamber, with a deep orange 
chamber adjoining, and a garden grown to seed in 
the distance. I pitied and loved the place at sight. 
It was unreasonable in every particular. It had 
secret panels but partially hiding various lockers of 
no earthly use. It had a stone balcony over an inner 
court, where there was nothing to be enjoyed; it 
had a well under the window, that seemed to invite 
suicide; a covered passage spanned the court below 
and connected the blue chamber with the hanging 
garden. Here there was sunshine and sweet air and 
a tangle of unkept vines; a grape-arbour made a 
green cloister on one side of the garden, and almond- 
trees clung to the wall on the other ; a marble foun- 



194 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

tain, choked with dust, was half buried in the wild 
briers thai flourished in the midst thereof. Birds 
haunted this blessed spot — sparrows and swallows 
hovered about in restless flocks, and rooks sat in 
a row on the high roof of the Quirinal, just over 
the quiet street in the rear. Evidently this was the 
place for me. Without a moment's hesitation I 
secured it, and that was all the home I knew for the 
next half-year. 

Eugenio envied me and coveted my happiness. 
He had swell apartments in a real palace; but no 
garden blossomed for his sake, no birds were his 
pensioners, no balcony hung like a swallow's nest 
against the wall on one side of a court. And such 
a court ! There was a fresco opposite my window, 
a landscape with maddening perspective, and a sky 
that seemed dense enough to actually float my 
garden. 

This was entirely satisfactory; for what can be 
more delightful than to go over a Bridge of Sighs 
into a high garden, twenty feet from the street on 
every side; and to realise that there is a broad strip 
of very blue sky under you, as any one may see 
with half an eye who will take the trouble to look 
from the balcony out of the deep orange chamber, 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 195 

or from the narrow window of the blue room just 
over the well in the court? 

A day passed busily. Behold the transformation ! 
Each article of furniture has been wheeled about 
and fitted into a nook apparently just made for it. 
Photographs and trophies of travel adorn the walls ; 
books strew the tables and the bureau; there is a 
fire in the chimney, and the pen on the writing-desk 
is still wet. In three words, I had settled myself 
and begun life anew. Meanwhile the birds sang, 
the fire crackled; and Gigi, the jovial specimen of 
feminine angularity already referred to, looked in 
from time to time to inquire if I wished for any- 
thing, which certainly I didn't at such moments, 
except it were peace and tranquillity ; but these fled 
at the approach of Gigi, and never returned again 
until the echo of her footfall had died upon the 
stairs. 

I wrote, dreamed over the scelte cigars that are 
only two sous each, and marvellously good at the 
price; I re-read old letters, crossed the Bridge of 
Sighs into my hanging garden, and " fluttered the 
dove-cotes " on the adjoining eaves. Now and 
again came the tinkle of a well-worn piano, the 
reverberations of which sounded not unlike the re- 



196 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

fined agonies of a bloated music-box buried alive in 
the wall. 

It became evident that the instrument was in the 
room above, and that the notes leaked through the 
floor. I paused and listened. It was no light hand 
that toyed with those antiquated keys. Anon a 
heavy step shook my ceiling; and, after crossing 
and recrossing the floor above, a door slammed and 
the clang of a sabre was heard upon the dark stone 
stairs. There was silence for a time. Then the 
piano seemed to start alone and to play itself, and 
to sound more like a music-box than ever. It was 
an airy prelude, that quickened the ear of the lodger 
on the first floor back, — myself, you know, — and 
after that a sad, passionate, world-wearied voice 
sang a rhapsody in the gloomiest of minors, — a 
rhapsody that ended in an unmistakable sob. This 
was too much for me. 

No man who is a man can sit calmly and write 
letters when there is a woman in the room above 
breaking her heart over something. I rang for 
Gigi. I asked who sang like a nightingale with her 
breast against a thorn on the second floor back. 
Gigi beamed with delight at being able to make her- 
self positively useful at last, and said it was La 
Signora Contessa. Moreover, the countess was an 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 197 

American, like myself; and at this startling an- 
nouncement, seeing that I was perfectly dazed, Gigi 
disappeared. Before I had recovered I was con- 
fronted by two of the sex — Gigi and the nightin- 
gale. 

/' Ecco! la Contessa/' said Gigi, and then with- 
drew ; leaving me and my mysterious guest staring 
at each other in blank amazement. 

In a moment I regained that self-possession for 
which I am justly famous; and, with professional 
instincts, at once began taking notes. Let me see — 
liiiputian lady, neatly clad in black; matchless 
head; dark hair threaded with gray; thoroughbred 
nose; refined face, and eyes like Juno's — immense, 
melancholy, magnetic. 

It all flashed upon me in a moment, while she 
was saying that she had long resided in the house; 
and that if I wished to communicate more freely 
with Gigi than I had been doing with the aid of a 
dictionary, and a pantomime that was having a pro- 
longed but unprofitable run, she, the ox-eyed, was 
quite at my service as a translator. In the next 
breath I responded : 

" You are from America ? " 

" Yes," promptly and decisively. 

** You have been in California?" 



198 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

" Oh, yes! " with a flash of the ox-eyes, that now 
looked less melancholy. 

"I believe I know you?" 

" Probably, if you are from San Francisco. I 
am Biscaccianti ! " 

We ran into the hanging garden, and talked 
wildly for two hours without stopping; and then 
we went out to an ideal trottoria, which she knew 
well, and of which I had never dreamed, and there 
we dined to our hearts' content. That night the 
orange chamber impressed me as being less bilious 
than usual; for I heard a voice, that seemed to 
have grown fresh and young again, rehearsing 
fragments of operas, that reminded me of the old 
days when this sad little lady was in her glory, ere 
ever the dark days had come. 

Everything went smoothly after that. Even the 
balcony assumed a virtue; for it was discovered 
that, by leaning out from the clumsy structure, I 
could commune with the Contessa, who had a win- 
dow in a convenient angle above. There was noth- 
ing prettier in all Rome than " Bisky " — as she 
chose to call herself — when she appeared at that 
enticing window, and, shaded from the sunshine by 
the picturesque awning, cried out to me : " Bon 
giorno, signor! '' and I replied, " Come state, Si- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 199 

gnoraContessaf " Whereupon we fell to recounting 
the days that were no more, and to sighing like 
'' Juliet " and '' Romeo," without fear and without 
footlights. 

We talked of her early triumphs in California; 
of her splendid successes in South America, where 
she was feted from coast to coast ; of her later ex- 
periences in San Francisco, where misfortunes befell 
her; and I then learned to think better of her for 
the charitable spirit she showed toward all. She 
was philosophical enough to rise superior to the fate 
that abused her during her last season in that city; 
and perhaps the sweetest revenge she could possibly 
have, if she cared for revenge in any shape, was that 
she thought kindly of her traducers, and was now 
far beyond their reach. Many a time have I sat in 
her cosy rooms and talked by the hour with her, 
until, no longer able to restrain herself, she would 
fly to the piano and pour out her sorrow in melodi- 
ous song. At such times I could scarcely believe that 
it was twenty years ago when she was famous, and 
that sickness and sorrow and poverty had visited her 
since then. I could hardly believe that the little lady, 
who looked almost like a girl, was the mother of 
Count Giulio, a stalwart soldier, who was as hand- 
some as a picture, as devoted as a lover, musical, 



200 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

poetical, and altogether a delightful fellow, with 
not more than six words of English at his com- 
mand. 

La Contessa was always busy. It was now a 
music lesson, anon an hour's conversation in Eng- 
lish with some studious Italian, or instructions in 
that mellifluous tongue among the foreigners who 
swarm at Rome in winter. Frequently she sang at 
the salons of the nobility, where she was received 
with flattering consideration; but the life was slow 
and monotonous after a career like hers. Young 
Giulio, whose innocent years had been passed at 
some convent school in South Italy, knew little of 
the reverses that were borne so bravely by his 
mother. He laughed, clanged his sabre, thundered 
on the piano, and finally caught La Contessa in his 
arms and skipped about the room with her. It was 
his antidote for the '' blues " — the "blues" that 
are nowhere more prevalent or more prostrating 
than in Italy during the long sieges of the sirocco. 

We strove to be gay in the Carnival seasons, and 
failed; we subsided into Lent, and fasted on the 
memories of bygone times. Our conversations 
were frequent and voluminous; we never began 
where we left off, preferring to seize some floating 
thought and drift away with it into idle reveries. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 201 

Perhaps she dwelt upon the early days by Lake 
Como, where she was for a year the pupil of Mme. 
Pasta and a member of her household. Every morn- 
ing she was awakened from her dreams by Pasta, 
who stood under her window in the garden and 
trilled like a lark, until the child who was destined 
to be famous, and to outlive her fame, had risen and 
saluted that glorious singer. There were recollec- 
tions of Rossini and a thousand anecdotes of famous 
folk, related with such gusto that Giulio, who could 
only laugh in sympathy, would lose all patience 
with our English and strike his sabre in despair. 
We all fed those birds, and they learned to know 
us so well that each morning they sat in rows on the 
garden walk and did the Pasta business quite suc- 
cessfully. They grew fat and apoplectic before 
spring. They swung among the almond blossoms 
and drove the tom-cat to despair. 

And so quietly, but not unexpectedly, the welcome 
Easter came. There wxre frescoed eggs on every 
plate that morning, and a huge piece of plum-cake, 
together with thin slices of bologna — the custom- 
ary Easter offering in all Italian houses. There 
was a pretty letter of congratulation signed '' Bisky,'"* 
a photograph with compliments of Giulio, a bou- 
quet from Gigi, — in short, we had glorious sport. 



202 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

and made a day of it in the suburbs along with half 
the town. It was on this joyful occasion that 
" Bisky " turned to me suddenly and asked, with 
uncommon enthusiasm — she was still harping on 
San Francisco : '' Do tell me ! Is the Oriental Hotel 
as fashionable as ever?" I blushed a dumb reply, 
for the Oriental Hotel was known only to students 
of ancient history. 

At Easter we scattered. I went into the Alban 
Hills to recruit on air-tonics and unadulterated wine ; 
and when I returned to the Quattro Fontane, lo! 
" Bisky " and Count Giulio had fled. He had been 
ordered to fresh fields, and she had followed, as she 
doubtless will follow until one or the other has 
finished the course. 

It is needless to say that I have learned to love 
Rome with the peculiar love which Rome, more than 
any other city of which I have knowledge, is sure 
to beget at last. Just now a letter comes to me — 
a touch of nature from the pen of that delightful 
and mysterious author of '' Kismet " and " Mirage." 
Let me close this paper with a brief quotation : — 

" We have had a week's storm : March winds and 
snow and hail. To-day is the divinest day of spring. 
In an hour I am going outside the Popolo, along 
the Ponte Molle road and to the fields beside the 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 203 

Tiber. I am going there to pick wild white narcissi, 
and He on the grass, and look down at the river and 
away past the blossoming trees at the ineffable line 
of the mountains. And I shall think of you as I 
think of you each time I pass your door, where the 
little cobbler is still sitting and the children selling 
violets." 

Oh, ye immortal gods ! what a shame it is that one 
can not be in two places at once! 



A FAIR ANONYMOUS 



A FAIR ANONYMOUS 

A PICTURE of travel in several parts; a 
picture before which I burn the delicious 
incense of the cigarette, and dream and speculate 
to my heart's content; a picture that is prominent 
in my album of memories, because it is involved 
in mystery, and because the subject is a little 
uncommon. 

It was night in beautiful Nubia. Our caravan 
moved slowly and noiselessly through the desert 
gorge, that repeats in a hoarse whisper the roar of 
the Nile cataract. The full moon sailed in a cloud- 
less sky ; the black walls of the ravine were glossed 
with the fast falling dew ; now and again we caught 
glimpses of smouldering camp-fires, the sharp out- 
lines of crouching Arabs, the trains of camels that 
passed us at a discreet distance — moving shadows 
in a land of silhouettes. 

We halted for a few moments at a well in the 
desert, an oasis fantastically tinted in the cross- 
lights of moon and camp-fire. We smoked the 

207 



2o8 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

omnipresent nargileh, sat on our plebeian donkeys, 
and chatted, and shared our wine with the sleek 
savages that swarmed like flies at our approach. 
We had hushed their cries for backsheesh with a 
reasonable distribution of absurdly small coins ; and 
were about to set forth again, when in the vague 
distance a huge form appeared, and a few moments 
later a solitary camel strode out of the desert, and 
saluted us with that agonising gurgle, the wail of 
an apparently breaking heart, which seemed to flood 
its two yards of writhing neck. 

On the summit of this beast sat a slight figure 
clad in the habiliments of the East, — a youth of 
five and twenty or thereabouts, — a black-eyed 
blonde — an anomaly, — wearing only the dark- 
hued fez, a token of distinction, and with more trap- 
pings at the girdle than is common with the higher 
classes. We naturally saluted the stranger in a 
babel of tongues, believing that one or the other 
would prove intelligible. Imagine our surprise on 
being addressed in faultless English, followed by a 
few brief and pointed questions, couched succes- 
sively in the purest French, German, Italian, Spanish, 
and something else so hideous that it might easily 
have been Russian. He asked the distance to 
Assouan, the direction of the trail, the condition of 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 209 

the Nile, and seemed mildly interested in the latest 
political trials in Europe. Then, having declined 
wine and the nargileh with the graceful salutation 
of the East, he implored us, if we crossed the track 
of his caravan, to bid the slaves in his name to 
follow him as speedily as possible. With that he 
prodded the haunches of his camel with a pronged 
staff; and the beast, with a loud shriek of indignant 
rage, plunged into the desert solitude with his mys- 
terious master. 

Completely mystified, we resumed our journey. 
We met and communed with the belated caravan, — 
an extensive retinue for a youngster of five and 
twenty to drag after him. The servants, as is the 
custom in the East, interviewed one another; but 
the fragments of gossip that came to our ears were 
like quotations from the Arabian Nights. A prince, 
a Russian probably, a spendthrift unquestionably; 
an adventurer from the farther borders of the Sou- 
dan, bound for Bagdad; erratic, romantic, richer 
than Croesus, and thus forth, — it was all the satis- 
faction we got out of the desert beyond Egypt. 

While the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was 
desecrated with the furious mob that annually 
gathers in Passion Week and awaits the miracle of 
the divine fire, I was securely closeted in one of 



210 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

the galleries that encircle the amphitheatre. Here I 
could watch with perfect composure the sacrilegious 
wrangling of the fanatical Greeks, who storm the 
tomb of Our Lord until the sacred fire has been 
kindled within it, and thrust from the two portals 
by the hands of the secreted priest. 

Meantime I searched the galleries, feeling assured 
that I should discover a score or more of faces with 
which I had grown familiar in Egypt. The tracks 
of Oriental pilgrims invariably interlace, and you are 
never sure of losing a friend till one or the other has 
put the sea between you. Among the many which 
I recognised was one that for a moment startled me, 
— a proud face, finely and delicately chiselled ; and 
with a lip which, though girlish and exquisitely 
moulded, was singularly defiant. A Syrian nabob, 
I thought, — a young blood of Jerusalem. His 
slender hands were profusely ornamented with 
jewels. He, like the majority of those present, was 
smoking a cigarette, and amusing himself with blow- 
ing the ashes into the frantic crowd that swayed to 
and fro over the floor of the church. The gorgeous 
dragoman and two or three servants that surrounded 
him seemed to fawn upon him with the obsequious 
servility of the slave tribes. Again I recognised 
him — the black-eyed blonde from the Soudan. I 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 211 

resolved to track him if possible, and seek an ac- 
quaintance, with the pardonable intrusion of a 
fellow traveller. 

The miraculous flames burst from the perforated 
walls of the sacred tomb ; ten thousand tapers caught 
it and communicated it to every nook and corner 
of the vast edifice. In a few moments the densely 
peopled nave was like a globe of fire, swarming with 
lost souls. I turned and made my escape through 
the corridors of the Latin convent; but in the open 
square before the church, in the bazars and in the 
streets of Jerusalem, I looked in vain for the blonde 
prince of the Soudan. 

O Damascus, pearl of the East! I lounged in 
the green groves that girdle that city of paradise, — 
Damascus at sunset is an opal set in emeralds, — 
and listened to the plash of its fountains till the 
very music became almost unbearable. 

At last I met him face to face; black-eyed, as 
usual — a permanent blonde ; a fellow who seemed 
to know the world by heart, and to despise it because 
it had kept nothing from him. Blase, good-looking, 
his own lord and master; amiable, elegant, a crea- 
ture of infinite resources; sketching a little, and 
with a clever pencil; skilled in music; an author, 
perhaps — every man writes nowadays ; a creature 



212 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

of inexhaustible repose. That charge through the 
Nubian desert in the dead of night was a mere bit 
of sentiment, — his people bored him more than the 
solitude, — a perplexing study, a puzzle that out- 
riddled the Sphinx. He identified himself with no 
race and no religion ; he cunningly avoided betray- 
ing his name, and carefully withheld any clue by 
which he might be afterward identified. Over coffee 
and the nargileh he conversed freely upon every 
topic except those which related to himself and his 
history ; he even invited me to his camp in one of the 
groves, so that I might taste a superior brand of 
liqueur, which he said he never travelled without, 
and which I am sure was not to be obtained save in 
the best markets in Europe. His luxurious tent 
was pitched upon the border of a delicious stream. 
The Sultan himself could hardly journey in a more 
sumptuous fashion. Even his retinue of slaves were 
distinguished for physical beauty, and I again ob- 
served with what deference they greeted the approach 
of their master. It was not likely that we should 
meet again, he said; for he laid no plans. Even a 
change in the wind, or an ominous dream, might 
send him adrift in a new quarter of the globe. 

Probably it was not intentional, but I am sure 
that I saw him again, a few weeks later, searching 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 213 

among the magnificent confusion in the dingy bazars 
of Stamboul. Had it not seemed an impertinence, 
I would have approached him; for I thought then, 
and I am still inclined to think, that, taken off his 
guard, he would drop his mask and betray himself. 
But the bazars are bewildering. Troops of petty 
merchants, and runners for those who sit solemnly 
in the midst of their wares awaiting custom and the 
day of doom, — these beggars distract you and 
drive you into by-ways, where you are forced to 
purchase liberty at an extravagant figure. I turned 
to look for him, and he was gone! 

Once more we happened to meet. I awaited 
sunset in the Acropolis. I had withdrawn into an 
unfrequented portion of the ruin, beyond the inces- 
sant clatter of English tongues, where I could enjoy 
in profound silence the inspiring hour. I need not 
again attempt to picture the beautiful landscape — 
the intensely blue Mediterranean, the distant islands 
like clouds, and the low-hanging clouds like islands, 
floating between the two heavens of sea and sky. 
Go back to your Homer and enrich yourself! 

For some moments a shadow had been standing 
by me. I had seen it reflected on the back of my 
left cornea. It was as if some one had whispered to 



214 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

me, '' I am here," or something of that sort. I 
was almost afraid to turn and discover the intruder ; 
you probably know the sensation and respect it. A 
hand was laid gently on my shoulder. I sprang up 
and confronted — a Greek, a young fellow in the 
national costume — how much uglier it is than the 
Mohammedan ! — but the eyes and the hair I re- 
membered, and was heartily pleased to shake the 
hand of the anonymous person who had escaped me 
in Stamboul. All that was to be learned in this 
interview is not worth recording. He was about to 
exhaust Greece; it was his custom to adapt himself 
to the ways of the people among whom he sojourned, 
and he began with the adoption of their language 
and dress. He had dismissed his retinue of Syrians, 
Egyptians, and Nubians, and taken to himself a 
choice collection of Greeks ; they even then awaited 
him at the lower gates of the Acropolis. 

It was useless to question him, — his extreme 
delicacy and reserve at once forbade it. There was 
nothing left for us to do, now that the sun had set 
and the roses of the afterglow were fast withering, 
but to say farewell in the customary formal and 
highly unsatisfactory fashion of the modern man; 
and that we did inside of ten minutes. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 215 

Naples! the seemliest and most sensuous city 
under the sun ; a city swimming in sunshine, folded 
between blue water and blue sky; a city that re- 
sounds with a music peculiar to its people; a city 
that never sleeps. From the long green gardens by 
the shore to the rocky battlements that crown its 
heights, there is nothing but jollity in it. Even its 
squalor is picturesque, and the laughing beggars 
skip nimbly to their graves — if a dry tank half- 
filled with quicklime, the common receptacle of the 
pauper dead, may be called a grave. 

One is never surprised at anything in Naples. 
I was not surprised when I sat at the gates of the 
Villa Reale and heard the music of an afternoon, 
and watched the procession of the pleasure-seekers 
as they drove to and fro in the Chiaja. I was not 
surprised when I saw a phaeton drawn by a span of 
toy ponies and driven by a young lady in a distract- 
ing costume. The smallest of tigers crouched behind 
her, clad in a cloud of buttons. I saw her again 
and again in the Toledo, the target of a thousand 
eyes ; and at last met her in the track that skirts the 
Villa, mounted upon a mettlesome cob, attended by 
a page. Must I confess that our eyes met and that 
we exchanged glances of recognition at one and the 



2i6 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

same moment, and that we did so without a shudder ? 
Do you urge me to proceed? Shall I say that she 
greeted me, the veritable black-eyed, blonde Sou- 
danite ? 

Vesuvius grew purple and wan in the gathering 
dusk. We walked leisurely under the ilex-trees in 
that endless avenue by the sea, flanked with a hun- 
dred gods in marble. We talked of the camp-fire 
in the desert — she had forgotten it ; of the fire 
fete in Jerusalem — as yet she had no knowledge of 
the curiosity she had excited in my breast; then 
Damascus and Stamboul and Athens — evidently 
she was not inclined to acknowledge that masquerade 
in the Levant. But she knew^ it by heart and be- 
trayed herself again and again. Of course it is her 
affair and not mine; and it is for this reason that 
I write of it. 

There she is ! English, I suppose ; an outlaw, with 
a casino at Possilippo and a yacht anchored under 
the cliffs. Her name? I give it up. You may 
meet her yourself some day in Spain, in Morocco, 
in her yacht among the Greek islands, or on a camel 
in the desert. It is all the same to her so long as 
she seeks and finds perpetual summer. Don't 
ask for Anonyma, for that isn't her chosen name. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 217 

You will know her by the black eyes and the blonde 
hair, the exquisite hands, and a manner which is all 
her own. But, between you and me, there are those 
in Naples who fear her, yet know her not; who 
despitefully use her, yet can not tell you why. 



THE POET OF THE SIERRAS 



THE POET OF THE SIERRAS 

ONCE upon a time a letter, written by one 
whom I had never met, was sent out in 
search of me. I will not quote the whole of this 
letter, though I should like to. It is a long 
letter and it now lies open before me. It is dated 
Portland, Oregon, March, 1869, and begins thus: 

" Dear Sir : — Knowing you to be a true poet, 
though knowing you by your writings only, I 
venture to lay before you a little plan of mine, and 
show you how you can do me a signal service and 
kindness." 

The writer of that letter was a poet, — a much 
truer poet than I ever dared to think myself, even in 
my callow days — and heaven knows I was callow 
enough then. 

He said he was publishing a little book of poems, 
there in Portland ; a second book, and " ten-fold 
better " than the one published the year before ; 
the first was a pamphlet called '* Specimens." I have 

221 



222 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

a copy of it in my hand at this moment. He wanted 
this new book, a bound volume, to be noticed among 
the reviews in the Overland Monthly, and wished 
that I might make it the subject of a brief article 
in that magazine. The letter concluded in this 
highly characteristic vein : — 

" But, mind you, I do not want anything said that 
solid merit does not justify. Hoping to hear from 
you soon, I am, please sir, sincerely yours, 

" C. H. Miller.'' 

When the letter reached San Francisco I was in 
Hawaii. It followed me thither. We passed one 
another at sea. At last it overtook me, but too late 
for me to be of any service to the poet. Bret Harte, 
the editor of the Overland, had already spoken of 
the volume " Joaquin, et al," by Cincinnatus H. 
Miller, in the following strain, — and in this case 
the voice of prophecy was not afraid to speak out. 
Bret Harte in the Overland Monthly, January, 1870, 
said : — 

" We find in ' Joaquin, et al ' the true poetic in- 
stinct, with a natural felicity of diction and a dra- 
matic vigour that are good in performance and yet 
better in promise. Of course, Mr. Miller is not 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 223 

entirely easy in harness, but is given to pawing and 
curvetting; and at such times his neck is generally 
clothed with thunder and the glory of his nostrils 
is terrible. But his passion is truthful and his figures 
flow rather from his perception than his sentiment." 

The poet assured me in his letter that the Cali- 
fornia press did not believe that there was balm in 
the Oregonian Gilead and that the Oregon press had 
no opinion of its own, — what was he to do in such 
a case, unless appeal to some brother poet who might 
call the attention of a listless public to his songs ? 

He was original, to say the least ; and being origi- 
nal was ingenuous, and being ingenuous was most 
refreshing. Never had a breezier bit of human 
nature daw^ned upon me this side of the South Seas 
than that Poet of the Sierra when he came to San 
Francisco in 1870. 

He must have grown up like a weed, off yonder in 
Oregon, and it was as the voice of one crying in the 
wilderness when he sang in that little book of his 
this song : — 

TO THE BARDS OF SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

"I am as one unlearned, uncouth, 
Of some sweet town in quest of truth. 

A skilless Northern Nazarine 
From whence no good can ever come. 
I stand apart as one that's dumb: 



224 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

I hope, I fear, I hasten home, 
I plunge into my wilds again. 



"I greet you and your brown bent hills 
Discoursing with the beaded rills 
While over all the full moon spills 

Her flood in gorgeous plenilune. 
While skillful hands sweep o'er the strings, 
I heed as when a seraph sings, 
I lean-to catch the whisperings, 

I list into the night's sweet noon. 

"I see you by the streaming •strand, 
A singing sea-shell in each hand 
And silk locks tossing as you stand, 

And tangled in the evening breeze. 
And lo! the sea with salty tears, 
Doth plead that you for years and years 

Will stay and sing unto the sea." 

So sang the poet before he made his appearance 
in San Francisco. Having warned me of his ap- 
proach, — we had corresponded ever since the re- 
ceipt of his first letter, — I was on the lookout, and 
one fine morning the Oregon steamer brought him 
safe to shore clad in a pair of beaded moccasins, a 
linen " duster " that fell nearly to his heels, and a 
broad-brimmed sombrero. 

If he had indeed, — 

"From country come to join the youth 
Of some sweet town in quest of truth," 

I fear he found the town's sweetness hardly up to 

the desired grade, and when we met I was not armed 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 225 

with the celebrated '' sea-shell " and my " silk locks " 
positively refused to '' toss and tangle; " yet almost 
his first words were, '' Well, let us go and talk with 
the poets ! " 

In vain I assured this untamed poet that the 
" Bards of San Francisco Bay," whom he had so 
naively saluted, had taken the vows of neither 
brotherhood nor sisterhood; that they feasted at 
no common board ; flocked not ; discoursed with no 
beaded rills; neither did their skilled hands sweep 
any strings whatever, and he must, therefore, listen 
in vain for the seraphic song. 

I added that rarely was I able to flush a brace of 
these singers; and as far as a fraternal recognition 
was concerned, he could scarcely hope for it, since 
bards let loose in the vulgar crowd became speedily 
indistinguishable. 

It was sad to see the face of that poet as he lis- 
tened to my revelations. I think his first impulse 
was to return at once to his native wilds and try to 
forget to what straits civilisation has reduced us. 
Had he done so he might have left us many more 
of those poems which are unique in their strength 
and freshness. It has always seemed to me that he 
lost something peculiarly his own by coming in 



226 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

contact with society. His music was pitched in quite 
another key. 

At the time we first met I was preparing for 
a voyage to Tahiti. It was my intention to return 
to that state of nature which is bounded on the 
north, south, east, and west, by earthly feHcity. I 
had sworn never to revisit this work-a-day world; 
I am always doing that kind of thing and always 
getting back again while it is yet day. 

For a few hours, or a few minutes, the poet 
seemed to waver. I had brought him face to face 
with Bret Harte; this did not save him, neither did 
it satisfy. I had presented him to Ina Coolbrith, 
and on the instant he had whispered to me, — 

" Divinely tall and most divinely fair." 

He must have realised that they were solitaries 
doomed to their respective cells, and that a like fate 
most probably awaited him if he remained in San 
Francisco. He had started for England in search 
of fame and fortune ; he had been somewhat chilled 
by his reception in the metropolis : what if he were 
to accompany me to Tahiti and there retune his 
lyre? 

It is well that he did not, but rather pushed on to 
London, for I speedily came to grief and suffered the 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 227 

torments of a perfumed purgatory ; hungry, thirsty, 
naked, and unvisited. To this hour I cannot read 
the opening chapter of Stevenson's '* Ebb-Tide " 
without reviving an experience that was pitiful 
though picturesque. While I wandered homeless 
and forlorn in Papeete, the poet was already feted 
and famous in Old England. 

On a photograph taken in 1870, and on the fly- 
leaf of his first bound volume of verses, the poet 
wrote a line for me with the following dates affixed : 
"1870! 1875?" In 1875 that question was no 
longer unanswered. The poet's fame was well 
established, and it was the English verdict that 
established it. 

Often we met after that. In California, whither 
he returned while his laurels had still the dew of 
freshness upon them; in Rome, where I shared his 
lodgings for a little season ; lodgings most romanti- 
cally situated, but their location was ever a profound 
mystery. This was one of the idiosyncrasies of the 
poet and it provoked much curiosity and discussion 
among his most intimate friends. 

How well I remember the night when, with no 
little solemnity, he broke to me the secret of his 
earthly habitation. He had rescued me from a 
crowded and noisome hotel; having crossed the 



228 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

Piazza d'Espagna, we were slowly ascending the 
Spanish steps, under the shadows of the Casa in 
which Keats died ; the Barcaccina fountain splashed 
below us, and the full moon hung like a nimbus over 
the head of the Madonna that tops the column of 
the Immaculate Conception. 

" Swear ! " cried the poet, as we paused on the 
Spanish steps, — it was very like a travesty on the 
ghost of Hamlet's father, — '' Sw^ear that under no 
circumstances will you at any time or place reveal 
to any one the name of the street and the number of 
the house in which we lodge. It is a dead secret! " 

I swore and I kept my oath. Not a stone's throw 
from the top of the stairs we turned into a narrow 
way, and peering cautiously about us to make sure 
we were not observed, suddenly, like a couple of 
conspirators, we disappeared. 

It is true that I arrived in Rome in advance of 
my luggage; that luggage went wandering over 
the Continent at the beck and call of many a fellow 
unfortunate in search of '' lost, strayed, or stolen " 
articles, and one year and ten days from the hour 
it escaped me at Culos it was restored to me in 
Venice none the worse for wear. In my predicament 
the poet came nobly to my rescue. He parted his 
garments with me, but, alas! his singing robes did 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 229 

not fall to my lot. He has always been ready and 
eager to share with me ; nor am I the only one who 
has found him an ever faithful and unselfish friend. 

Oh, the vicissitudes of those Roman days ! Hav- 
ing found a lodging for myself, I very often missed 
him, for he was wont to vanish from one haunt, 
make for himself a nest in a distant part of the city, 
and not even I could trace him there. But I could 
watch for him on the Corso and the Pincio, or in 
the delightful villas as he drove with the " Pink 
Countess " of an afternoon. Then we were pretty 
sure to meet some time during the day or evening 
at the Cafe Greco, that world-famous haunt of artists 
and Bohemians. Much of my Roman life and a 
great deal more of his has been embodied in that, 
to me, most beguiling of romances, " The One Fair 
Woman." It may not be his best work, but it is 
one of the truest tales he ever told. 

We spent part of a winter together in New York, 
in the very heart of the city, behind lace curtains 
and locked doors, — for he had serious work to do 
and was supposed to be at the antipodes ; you know 
one must pretend to be there if one would avoid 
interruptions. Somehow my presence never seemed 
to bother him, and I was glad of it, for we led a 



230 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

kind of camp life in those parlours, and it was great 
fun. 

I used to steal out in the twilight and come back 
with the marketing in my pockets ; then we revelled 
in getting supper. He had a knack of slapping a 
steak into a bed of live coals in the parlour grate 
and then tossing it over with the tongs that was my 
delight and my despair; such flames as enveloped 
that devoted steak and threatened to consume it; 
yet there was never a more jolly dish to set before a 
king, when it was brought to table. There were 
big mealy potatoes roasting in the ashes; plenty 
of good bread and butter and cheese ; a cupboard in 
the corner was well stored with dainties, and as 
for our tea, — who ever tasted a more delicious cup 
than he brewed and we drank in the Chinese 
fashion ? 

He had the whole day for work, and he improved 
it : together we had the evening for chat — though 
we did venture out on one or two occasions and 
witnessed some dramatic sensation in company with 
the gallery-gods. We felt quite like a couple of 
invisible princes, playing iitcog in the metropolis. 

When the poet first returned to us from England 
he was no longer C. H. Miller; he was Joaquin 
Miller, with such a wealth of *' silk locks " as might 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 231 

easily tangle in the breeze. People who knew him 
but little wondered at his pose^ his Spanish mantle 
and sombrero, his fits of abstractions or absorption, 
his old-school courtly air in the presence of women 
— even the humblest of the sex. He was thought 
eccentric to the last degree, a bundle of affectations, 
a crank, — even a freak. 

Now, I, who have known Joaquin Miller as inti- 
mately as any man can know him, know that all 
these mannerisms are natural to him; they have 
developed naturally; they are his second nature. 
Nothing becomes him better than the Spanish cloak 
and sombrero, and he shows amazing sense — for 
a poet — and abundant good taste into the bargain, 
in selecting these articles of apparel for general wear. 
He has as much right to the sheep-skin mantle as 
any shepherd of Campagna, and, oh, but it is a 
worthy garment, well suited to the chill air that 
sifts through the Golden Gate! I believe it to be 
the privilege of every man that lives to order his 
garments to suit himself. I believe it the duty of 
every one to look as picturesque as possible. When 
this state of afifairs shall come to pass, — look out 
for the Millennium! 

Joaquin Miller has one of the most active brains 
I know; it is apparently never at rest. He could 



232 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

not have produced as many volumes as he has, to 
say nothing of his voluminous contributions to peri- 
odical literature as yet uncollected, were he not one 
of the most industrious of men. If he is not inclined 
to talk at all times, when he opens his mouth it is 
worth one's while to lend an attentive ear. 

He is one of the most Christian of men, and one 
of the most liberal-minded. I never heard him speak 
an unkind word of any one, but have known him 
to defend those who were being defamed by others, 
even some who had misinterpreted him, and he 
knew it. 

He seemed in a great measure to have possessed 
that free spirit which is a native of the woods and 
wilds; the seclusion he is so jealous of enabled him 
to do this even in the midst of a busybody world. 

The simplicity of his life, the simplicity of his 
nature, the simplicity of his language, are most 
refreshing. There is in his prose a childlike 
candour that fascinates me; it babbles like a brook 
— a meadow brook that filters through sorrel and 
cress and then spreads and sparkles among the 
pebbles and the shoals ; it even lisps a little at times, 
and then it is quite bewitching. 

He has the native eloquence of the Indian, this 
backwoods laureate ; you will find no drawing-room 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 233 

commonplaces in his pages; but the delicate fra- 
grance of wild thyme, and the pungent odour of 
the pine, breathe from them; and with it all comes 
the conviction that this great and untrammelled soul 
is in dead earnest. 

If I were asked for my preference among his 
books I should name " Life Among the Modocs." 
His heart seems to throb all through it; it glows 
with colour and thrills with action, and contains 
passages so dulcet in diction they soften the lips 
like cream. 

Now, when we are so widely separated, when we 
do not see one another from year to year, we seldom 
exchange letters; we don't need to. He knows my 
heart, and I know his, — away off yonder in his 
sweet solitude, on The Heights. 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS OF 
BRET HARTE 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS OF BRET HARTE 

SHE came out of the kitchen in a starched 
gingham that shed about her a faint aroma 
of buckwheat cakes. She showed me the rooms 
that she had to let : one between the formal parlour 
and the informal dining-room, with its single 
window framed in roses, red and white; and one at 
the top of the stairs, under the sloping roof, and not 
bigger than a big box; it had a skylight that lifted 
like a lid, and there the air and the light and the 
dust sifted in. It was a cosy nook, and well enough 
lighted, but all that the eye could feast on was the 
fleckless, fathomless blue of the stark California sky, 
— and one must needs have lain on one's back to do 
that comfortably. I thought of Chatterton, and 
aspiring song, and hope deferred, and pinching pov- 
erty, and other picturesque but depressing things, 
and I said, " I'll take the room below, with the 
window under the rose-drift, and the blue-figured 
wall-paper." 

Then we turned from the skylighted locker, and 
237 



2sS EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

descended into an atmosphere permeated with the 
mingled odours of kitchen and parlour. 

When I came in, that evening, and met the land- 
lady at dinner, she said, half-reproachfully, '' I 
thought perhaps you'd like that room up-stairs be- 
cause it used to be Frank Harte's." 

It must have been in the year 1854 that Francis 
Bret Harte, at the age of fifteen, went to California 
with his widowed mother. It was scarcely nine 
years later, and he had achieved a local reputation 
as poet and prose writer. He was doubtless turn- 
ing his couplets when he was an occupant of the 
sky parlour, tucked under the eaves of this old- 
fashioned house that stood in the southern part of 
Oakland, California, not far from the water-front 
facing the Alameda marshes. 

In i860 my father rented a broad, low-roofed 
bungalow in another part of Oakland, and, as a 
family, we rejoiced there for a season. A modest 
colonnade surrounded this summer home, and it 
stood beneath a noble tree, the largest live-oak in all 
Oakland. On two sides of the garden was a white- 
w^ashed fence made of laths laid close together in a 
small diamond pattern. As young Harte's fame 
began to spread and the interest in his personal his- 
tory became general, we learned that at one time he 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 239 

had lived in that bungalow, and that the fence was 
the work of his hands. Had relic-hunters been 
forewarned in season it would have vanished be- 
times. 

Those were the halcyon days before California 
had become a health resort and been '' railroaded " 
to the depths of the commonplace. Oakland was a 
kind of wildwood or wilderness; there was but a 
single street in it worthy of the name, — a broad 
sandy trail that parted the grove in the middle : and 
even in this trail one had to turn out for a tree now 
and again, or for a deliberate cow with her dolor- 
ous bell, or for a recumbent goat. Beyond Oakland 
the comparatively naked and unexplored lands 
spread far and wide into the foot-hills; and there 
the adventurous were out of sight of hall and hovel, 
their feet sheathed in Mexican stirrups, musical but 
murderous spurs of gigantic circumference at their 
heels, and their shoulders overshadowed by broad- 
brimmed sombreros. Usually it was the solitary 
horseman who went thither, scenting the still, hot 
air of spicy canons, toiling over the brazen hills from 
camp to camp, and finding them as active as if it 
were flood-tide on market-day. Then, and later, 
at San Rafael, the bulls fought bravely on its saint's 



240 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

day, and the click of the castanet was heard in the 
land. 

San Francisco was unique: all the colour-lines 
were down; gilded vice, seated upon her tinsel 
throne, was visible from the pavement, and in some 
cases infamy might truly have been called splendid ; 
the drone of the hurdy-gurdy, the gay fandango, the 
Celestial players of fantan, were heard and seen on 
every side : and all these, Bret Harte, in the dew of 
his youth, saw, searched into, and assimilated. Like 
the Argonaut, the forty-niner, he became a part of 
the land itself, and a very living part of the life 
of the land. It is fortunate for us who knew Cali- 
fornia of old, and love to revive memories of the 
past, that he came when he came, saw what he saw, 
and conquered as he unquestionably did conquer, 
and held fast the very spirit, if not the letter, of that 
golden age. The spirit is the poetry, the letter is 
the prose of it all. Only a poet can paint the pictur- 
esque. California was picturesque once upon a time ; 
the life there and then was delightful, audacious, 
perhaps at times devilish ; there was not much repose 
in camp or town, but there was enough and to spare 
in the wide verandas of the sun-baked haciendas 
and in the attenuated vistas of the mission cloisters. 

It was a lucky fate that drove Bret Harte afield 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 241 

when he was all eyes; when his wits were wide 
awake, and he had a healthy, youthful thirst for 
adventure. Fate made of him for a time a country 
schoolmaster, and some of the finely finished studies 
he has given us are the direct results of that experi- 
ence; it lured him to learn the printer's trade; he 
sat in the seat of the scornful, — a village editor ; 
he was an express messenger in the mountains when 
the office was the target of every lawless rifle in the 
territory; he was glutted with adventurous experi- 
ences; he bore a charmed life. Probably his youth 
was his salvation, for he ran a thousand risks, yet 
seemed only to gain in health and spirits; and all 
the while he was unconsciously accumulating the 
most precious material that could fall to the lot of 
a writer — the lights and shadows, the colour, the 
details of a unique life, as brief as it was brilliant, 
and one never to be lived again under the sun or 
stars. 

Because he saw all there was of poetry and ro- 
mance in that singular life, and has reproduced it 
poetically and romantically, he has been accused of 
exaggeration by some of those who knew the life 
he pictures. But they did not know it as he knew 
it; they did not see the same side of it, the more 
interesting, the pictorial side. Theirs was quite 



242 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

another point of view : very much that was pecuHar 
to it — that which in many cases made it singular 
and a law unto itself — was partly or wholly lost 
to them; its most attractive elements were unnoted 
by them. Mr. Harte refers, in one of his prefaces, 
to an unknown early master who somewhat naively 
depicted the miner's life in a series of paintings. I 
well remember them, although it is an age since 
they disappeared from the public eye. This artless 
artist knew that life ; he saw its pathetic humour, its 
humourous pathos, its tragic fun, its comic tragedy, 
but his earnest and no doubt honest endeavours to 
reproduce these features were not wholly successful. 
Nor has any artist or any writer of whom I have 
knowledge succeeded as Bret Harte has succeeded 
in revivifying them. If he portrays only their pic- 
torial or poetical or romantic features, all the better ; 
the commonplace we have always with us, and it 
was no more tolerable then than it is now. 

The vicissitudes of Bret Harte were destined to 
become his stock in trade, and when he returned 
to San Francisco, and somehow drifted into the 
composing-room of the then famous paper. The 
Golden Era, he naturally began to contribute to its 
columns. The Golden Era was the cradle and the 
grave of many a high hope; there was nothing to 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 243 

be compared with it that side of the Mississippi ; and 
though it could pojnt with pride — it never failed to 
do so — to a somewhat notable list of contributors, 
it had always the fine air of the amateur, and was 
most complacently patronising. The very pattern 
of paternal patronage was amiable Joe Lawrence, 
its editor. He was an inveterate pipe-smoker, a 
pillar of cloud as he sat in his editorial chair, first 
floor front, on the south side of Clay Street below 
Montgomery; an air of literary mystery enveloped 
him. He spoke as an oracle, and I remember his 
calling my attention to a certain anonymous contri- 
bution, just received, and nodding his head pro- 
phetically — for he already had his eye on its fledg- 
ling author, a young compositor on the floor above. 
It was Bret Harte's first appearance in The Golden 
Era, and doubtless Lawrence encouraged him as 
he encouraged me when, out of the mist about him, 
he handed me — secretly and with a glance of cau- 
tion, for his business partner, the marble-hearted, 
sat at his ledger not far away — he handed me a 
folded paper on which he had written this startling- 
legend : " Write some prose for The Golden Era, 
and I will give you a dollar a column." I had not 
yet outgrown a bad habit of verse-making, had never 
been paid a farthing for anything I had published, 



244 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

and the brightening prospect dazzled and con- 
founded me. 

Before Bret Harte ceased to write for The Golden 
Era he had gained sufficient self-confidence to sign 
his contributions '' B. " or '' Bret." '' M'liss " was 
first printed in those columns, and Joe Lawrence was 
filled with Olympian laughter when he exhibited a 
handsome specially designed woodcut-heading which 
he had ordered for the charming tale. Mark Twain 
and Prentice Mulford became known through the 
columns of The Golden Era; Joaquin Miller wrote 
for it from the backwoods depths of his youthful 
obscurity. 

On May 28th, 1864, the first number of The 
Calif orniari was issued by Charles Henry Webb, its 
editor and proprietor. This was the famous weekly 
of which W. D. Howells, in an article on Mark 
Twain, has said : 

" I think Mr. Clemens has not mentioned his 
association with that extraordinary group of wits 
and poets, of whom Mr. Bret Harte, Mr, Charles 
Warren Stoddard, Mr. Charles Henry Webb, and 
Mr. Prentice Mulford were, with himself, the most 
conspicuous. These ingenuous young men, with the 
fatuity of gifted people, had established a literary 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 245 

newspaper in San Francisco, and they brilliantly 
cooperated to its early extinction." 

The first article that appeared in The Calif ornian 
was " Neighbourhoods I Have Moved From, by a 
Hypochondriac. No. One." It was followed by 
" The Ballad of the Emeu." Each is Bret Harte's, 
and both are unsigned. The " Condensed Novels," 
wdiich he began in The Golden Era, were continued 
in The Californian. To that highly interesting 
periodical he contributed many poems, grave and 
gay, sketches, essays, editorials, and book reviews; 
some of the latter were clever bits of verse. Occa- 
sionally one finds the name " Francis Bret Harte," 
or perhaps *' Bret," or only " H." attached to a 
piece of prose or verse; many of his contributions 
are unsigned, and much of the admirable work he 
did then is now of no avail on account of its purely 
local and ephemeral character. 

In July, 1868, when The Overland Monthly was 
founded, Bret Harte became its editor. Mr. Rounse- 
velle Wildman, for a time the editor of The Over- 
land Monthly, New Series, once wrote : " When 
Anton Roman made up his mind to establish a 
monthly magazine in connection with his publishing 
and bookselling business, he did so with the advice 
of Noah Brooks, Charles Warren Stoddard, B. B. 



246 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

Redding, W. C. Bartlett, and others, for most of 
whom he had already published books. When the 
question of a suitable editor arose, Stoddard recom- 
mended Bret Harte, then an almost unknown writer 
on The Golden Era, at that time a popular weekly. 
Bret Harte accepted with some misgivings as to 
financial matters, but was reassured when Roman 
showed him pledges of support by advertising pat- 
ronage up to nine hundred dollars a month, which he 
had secured in advance." In the August number of 
that magazine appeared " The Luck of Roaring 
Camp." If Mr. Harte had been in doubt as to his 
vocation before, that doubt was now dispelled for 
ever. Never was a more emphatic or unquestionable 
literary success. That success began in the com- 
posing-room, when a female compositor revolted at 
the unaccustomed combination of mental force, 
virility, and originality. No doubt it was all very 
sudden and unexpected; it shook the editorial and 
composing rooms, the business office, and a limited 
number of worthy people who had seen " The Luck " 
in manuscript, as they had never been shaken save 
by the notorious Californian earthquake. The cli- 
max was precipitated when the justly indignant 
editor, whose motives, literary judgment, and good 
taste had been impeached, declared that '' The Luck 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 247 

of Roaring Camp " should appear in the very 
next number of The Overland Monthly, or he would 
resign his office. Wisdom prevailed : the article 
appeared; The Overland' s success was assured, and 
its editor was famous. 

The rocket reputation is usually as brief as it is 
brilliant. Count them on your fingers, the successful 
first books that have attracted notice enough to turn 
the head of a man of genius. Where are they now, 
the writers and their books? The writers have 
written themselves out, and their books are forgotten. 
Probably, in spite of the fact that the best books 
may be neglected, their fate was well deserved. 

Perhaps no one knows just why success comes 
when it comes ; yet the question is not so difficult as 
why it is so long coming, and why in some cases it 
never comes at all. 

That Bret Harte worked for his success there is 
no doubt. I knew him best when he was editor of 
The Overland Monthly; I saw much of him then. 
Fortunately for me, he took an interest in me at a 
time when I was most in need of advice, and to his 
criticism and his encouragement I feel that I owe 
all that is best in my literary efforts. He was not 
afraid to speak his mind, and I know well enough 
what occasion I gave him; yet he did not judge me 



248 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

more severely than he judged himself. His humour 
and his fancy were not frightened away even when 
he was in his severest critical mood. Once, when 
I had sent him some verses for approval, he wrote : 

*' ' The Albatross ' is better, but not best, which is 
what I wanted. And then you know Coleridge has 
prior claim on the bird. But I'll use him unless 
you send me something else; you can, and you 
like, take this as a threat. 

" In ' Jason's Quest ' you have made a mistake 
of subject. It is by no means suited to your best 
thought, and you are quite as much at sea in your 
mythology as Jason was. You can do, have done, 
and must do better. Don't waste your strength in 
experiments. Give me another South Sea Bubble, 
a prose, tropical picture, with the cannibal, who is 
dead, left out." 

I am sure that the majority of the contributors to 
The Overland Monthly, while it was edited by Bret 
Harte, profited, as I did, by his careful and judicious 
criticism. Fastidious to a degree, he could not over- 
look a lack of finish in the manuscript offered him. 
He had a special taste in the choice of titles, and 
I have known him to alter the name of an article 
two or three times in order that the table of con- 
tents might read handsomely and harmoniously. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 249 

One day I found him pacing the floor of his office 
in the United States Branch Mint; he was knitting 
his brows and staring at vacancy, — I wondered 
why. He was watching and waiting for a word, 
the right word, the one word of all others to fit into 
a line of recently written prose. I suggested one; 
it would not answer; it must be a word of two 
syllables, or the natural rhythm of the sentence 
would suffer. Thus he perfected his prose. Once 
when he had taken me to task for a bit of careless 
work, then under his critical eye, and complained of 
a false number, I thought to turn away his wrath by 
a soft answer : I told him that I had just met a man 
who had wept over a certain passage in one of his 
sketches. '' Well," said Harte, " he had a right to. 
I wept when I wrote it ! " 

Toward the close of the first year of The Over- 
land Monthly, when I was in the Hawaiian Islands, 
I received a letter from Bret Harte, in which he said : 
" The Overland marches steadily along to meet its 
fate, which will be decided in July, but how I know 
not. Decency requires that you should be present 
in prose or poetry at these solemn moments, so send 
along your manuscript. 

" You do not want my advice; I should give you 
none that I would take myself. But you have my 



250 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 



love already; and whether you stay with the 
bananas or return to beans, or whatever you do, 
short of arson or Chinese highway robbery, which 
are inartistic and ungentlemanly, I am, etc. 

" P. S. Speaking of arson, I had forgotten Nero. 
Accompanied by a fiddle or a lyre, it might be made 
poetical." 

For some time after Bret Harte began his edi- 
torial work on The Overland Monthly he continued 
to fulfil the duties of a secretary in the United 
States Branch Mint at San Francisco. He was now 
a man with a family; the resources derived from 
literature were uncertain and unsatisfactory. His 
influential friends paid him cheering visits in the 
gloomy office where he leavened his daily loaves; 
and at his desk, between the exacting pages of the 
too literal ledger, many a couplet cropped out, and 
the outlines of now famous sketches were faintly 
limned. His friends were few, but notable; society 
he ignored in those days. He used to accuse me of 
wasting my substance in riotous visitations, and 
thought me a spendthrift of time. He had the 
precious companionship of books, and the lives of 
those about him were as an open volume, wherein 
he read curiously and to his profit. Had he not a 
genuine love of children, he could not have written 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 251 

*' The Luck of Roaring Camp." His understanding 
and appreciation of childhood, and all that pertains 
to its embryo world, he must have developed in his 
own home. The joys and griefs of infancy illumi- 
nate such genre studies as " A Venerable Impostor," 
*' A Boy's Dog," " Surprising Adventures of Master 
Charles Summerton," " On a Vulgar Little Boy," 
" Melons." 

Bret Harte was not yet thirty, when " The Luck " 
captured and comforted the hungry heart of Roaring 
Camp, and that camp, the heart of all the world. 
Yet his success never once agitated him. He did not 
value '' The Heathen Chinee," and seemed to deplore 
the astonishing interest it excited; I believe he 
sought consolation in the knowledge that rash 
enthusiasm is necessarily ephemeral. His reputation 
was founded upon a basis of solid worth; even the 
sensational success of " The Heathen Chinee " could 
not endanger it. Its establishment was sudden, one 
might almost say instantaneous; for parallels, I 
recall at this moment " Waverley " and the " Pick- 
wick Papers." 

That his success was genuine and just has been 
proved again and again by the repeated successes 
that have followed. The great majority of his 
sketches are studies of life on the Pacific coast, 



252 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 



though New England, Old England, and older Ger- 
many have in turn furnished the author with other 
backgrounds. Of all these studies, it is safe to 
assert that not one is an acknowledged failure, 
though they necessarily vary in interest, in artistic 
merit, and in popularity. The greatest successes 
have ever been where the scene is laid on California 
soil, and the characters are Calif ornians of the 
pioneer and early native types. Inasmuch as Mr. 
Harte's greatest achievements are in the portrayal 
of these types, and Mr. Rudyard Kipling's in the 
comparatively untried fields of modern East India's 
social or unsocial life and adventure, it is not im- 
probable that but for the bending of youthful and 
observant eyes on British India, and on the lively 
or deserted camps where the victims of the Cali- 
fornia gold fever survived or perished, these admi- 
rable artists would have become in a certain sense 
monopolists. Great is literary monopoly ! It breeds 
a thousand imitators, and each one has a following 
after his kind. Is the world not the richer for these ? 
No one who knew Mr. Harte, and knew the Cali- 
fornia of his day, wonders that he left it as he did. 
Eastern editors were crying for his work. Cities 
vied with one another in the offer of tempting bait. 
When he turned his back on San Francisco and 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 253 

started for Boston, he began a tour that the greatest 
author of any age might have been proud of. It 
was a veritable ovation that swelled from sea to 
sea; the classic sheep was sacrificed all along the 
route. I have often thought that if Bret Harte had 
met with a fatal accident during that transconti- 
nental journey, the world would have declared with 
one voice that the greatest genius of his time was 
lost to it. 

His experience in New England weighs little in 
the balance with his experience in California; his 
experience abroad even less. It was California, and 
early California, — let me say picturesque Cali- 
fornia, — that first appealed to him, and through 
him to all civilised nations in their several tongues. 

Of American authors, Bret Harte and Mark 
Twain have travelled farthest, and are likely to tarry 
longest. Whom would you substitute for these? 
Whom could you? In print each is as American 
as America, though the former spent nearly half his 
life in England and died there. When he left Cali- 
fornia in 1 87 1, he left it betimes; he took with him 
about all that was worth taking, and the California 
he once knew, and surely must have loved, lives 
for ever in his pages. It no longer exists in fact; 
but for him, in another generation it would have 



254 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

been forgotten. Because he had penetration such as 
few possess, and exceptional fancy, imagination, 
and Hterary art, he has been thought untrue to 
nature; those whom he has pictured would have 
no difficulty in recognising themselves could they 
but see the types he has made his own. It has been 
said, too, that he repeats himself. He does; so 
does spring and so does summer, — each is but 
another spring, another summer ; but they are never 
twice alike, nor would we have them other than 
they are. Any one can vouch for Bret Harte's truth 
to nature who knew San Francisco in the fifties, and 
is familiar with his civic and character sketches; 
what is true of one page is true of all. It is the 
point of view in every case that determines to whom 
the page or the picture shall appeal, and whether 
favourably or unfavourably. 

Away back in 1863, when I first met Bret Harte, 
I begged him to write in an album which I had 
recently acquired and of which I was very proud. 
The poet seemed to look upon albums and their 
keepers with polite scorn, and it is just possible that 
I might have met with a refusal had not his eye 
fallen upon the dedication, which was a very gra- 
cious welcome extended by the writer, Thomas Starr 
King, to all those who were to follow him. Seeing 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 255 

this tribute, which pitched the key-note of the thou- 
sand and one sentiments that now fill the volume, 
Harte surrendered. 

I quote the lines he wrote for me nearly forty 
years ago — lines never before published. The San 
Andreas he names was a California village, the inno- 
cent butt of many a harmless shot among the wags, 
and this distinction is all that has preserved it from 
oblivion. 

Though he was scarce three and twenty years of 
age w^hen the poem was written, those who knew 
him best will see how much there is of his peculiar 
temperament lurking between the lines. 

His was a nature wherein fear of being accused 
of sensibility often caused him to throw the shadow 
of sarcasm over his sentiment : 

Mary's album 

" Sweet Mary — maid of San Andreas — 
Upon her natal day 
Procured an album, double gilt, 
Entitled ' The Bouquet.' 

" But what its purpose was beyond 
Its name, she could not guess ; 
And so between its gilded leaves 
The flowers he gave she'd press. 

" Yet blame her not, poetic youth ! 
Nor deem too great the wrong; 



256 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

She knew not Hawthorne's bloom, nor loved 
Macaulay — flowers of song. 

" Her hymn-book was the total sum 
Of her poetic lore, 
And having read through Doctor Watts 
She did not ask for Moore. 

" But when she ope'd her book again, 
How great was her surprise 
To find the leaves on either side 
Stained deep with crimson dyes, 

" And in that rose — his latest gift — 
A shapeless form she views, 
Its fragrance sped — its beauty fled — 
And vanished all its dews. 

"O Mary — maid of San Andreas! 
Too sad was your mistake, 
Yet one methinks that wiser folk 
Are very apt to make, 

" Who 'twixt these leaves would fix the shapes 
That love and truth assume, 
And find they keep, like Mary's rose, 
The stain and not the bloom." 

Francis Bret Harte. 



WITHIN FOUR WALLS 



WITHIN FOUR WALLS 

I. 

MORNING 

LADIES and gentlemen! here you have a 
glimpse of old Pendulum by sunrise! Rather 
close quarters. Sailor bunk on one side; win- 
dow opening into a deep court, full of gray 
morning shadows; little hanging garden of books, 
with a toy ship grounded on the top shelf; and 
then, clocks, clocks — clocks everywhere; with 
a work-bench, a dozen of tools, and a disembowelled 
clock strewed over it. Evidently a clock-dissecting 
room ; and, no doubt, Old Pendulum can tell a thing 
or two about it. 

Meanwhile, the red disk of the sun floats upward, 
and a thousand moist roofs begin to look golden 
and beautiful in the slanting light. Overhead, a thin 
mist, as of sleep and dreams, is separating. There 
is a sound as of swinging doors and sliding win- 

259 



26o EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

dows ; down in the deep hollow of the court the 
tramp of feet is heard, and a milkman, with a fresh 
country voice and a can that clatters pleasantly, 
wakens the tenants of the basement story to the first 
duties of the day. 

Old Pendulum ought to be up and doing. It is 
his wont to greet the morning with uncommon rev- 
erence, and to watch the beginning of the world each 
day with the air of one w^ho is personally responsi- 
ble for the same. Evidently it is something uncom- 
mon for the old gentleman to oversleep himself ; for 
one after another of the tenants, who are still sunk 
under the shadows of the court, comes out and 
looks up at Pen's window, with a glance of surprise 
which is rapidly assuming a serious expression of 
concern. Perhaps the sun misses its faithful wor- 
shipper, and, as soon as convenient, it sends a mes- 
senger of light into the little room, that goes feeling 
along the whole length of Pen's unconscious body, 
creeping slowly toward his eyes all the while. Some 
pigeons, who disapprove of their godfather's negli- 
gence, flutter at the window, making low bows, and 
turning round and round on their pink coral legs like 
snow-white dervishes; and seem to be saying, in 
their queer, muffled voices, *' O, O, Pen ! O, O, 
Fen!" 



I 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 261 

At last, the sunbeam steals across Pen's lips, 
climbs his nose, slides down the bridge of it, and 
kisses him on both eyes with such a golden and 
miraculous kiss, that the lids fly open like magic, 
and the sleeper starts up in bed as one guilty and 
accused. 

" Well," says he, *' how's this? " and he turns to 
the one reliable clock in his motley collection, and 
finds that he is twenty minutes behind sunrise, and 
no possible excuse for it. In a moment, the bewil- 
dered man regains his self-possession, and, with a 
cheerful and patronising air, he says, '' Good morn- 
ing! " to his books, his clocks, the toy ship on the 
top shelf, and the pigeons in the window, who are 
waltzing like anything now, and nearly bobbing their 
heads off with delight at discovering that Pen has, 
at last, come to a realising sense of his iniquity. 

Now Pen opens a queer locker under his bunk, 
and gives a handful of wheat to his feathered chil- 
dren ; makes his comical toilet with uncommon haste 
(for he is trying to catch up with the sun) ; touches 
a secret spring in the door at the end of the room 
(w^hlch is no secret at all, yet pretends to an air of 
mystery that is quite enchanting), and open flies 
the door, disclosing a diminutive stove, together 
with all the appurtenances of a ship's galley. Noth- 



262 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

ing can be cosier! Pen lights his fire, steeps his 
tea, toasts his bread, and poaches his tgg; and 
then, with a womanish nicety and handiness, sets 
all things to rights, so as to give his complete and 
undivided attention to the clocks. 

The old fellow sits close by the window, where the 
pigeons are having a time of it. Now and again, he 
glances down into the deep court, watching for a 
sign. The shadow-tide is slowly falling down the 
dull walls, and by noon they will have a little bit 
of dry sunshine on the pavement of the court, but not 
for long ; up again, slowly but surely, the tide rises, 
and the people must live and breathe as best they can, 
down at the very bottom of it. Pen looks at his 
responsible clock from time to time, and looks at it 
as though it were to blame for everything that goes 
out of the common way. He grows more and more 
restless; he feels that something is wrong some- 
where, and, being himself a man who goes like clock- 
work, as it were, he feels called upon to keep the 
neighbourhood in running order. So Pen writes 
a telegram to Mrs. Blarney, the mother of it all, and 
heaves the line, — that is, he drops the note, by a 
thread, down the great wall of the building. It 
swings in front of Blarney's door for a minute, but 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 263 

attracts her notice, and is shortly taken in hand. 
The message reads something hke this: 

" Mr. Pendulum's compliments to Mrs. Blarney, 
and would like the loan of that boy." 

Blarney answers, by word of mouth, that she will 
be up directly. Pen winds in his line, takes down 
the toy ship from the top shelf, produces a small roll 
that looks very like a new picture-book, and returns 
to his work-bench to compose himself. Presently, 
a heavy step is heard mounting the long stairs that 
lead to the clock-tower. Pen rushes to the door, in 
a state of happy excitement, and calls from the upper 
floor to cheer the ascent of the pilgrims. Blarney 
climbs upward, with a heavy, swinging gait, and 
a ponderous breast quaking with her strong breath- 
ing. Blarney is large and rosy, anyway, and carries 
with her a penetrating odour of warm suds and 
ironing. In her massive arms, stripped to the shoul- 
der, and looking spongy, and half-boiled, she bears 
a pale, large-eyed little fellow, called Robin — a 
cripple from his birth — a saint, if there be such 
nowadays — an armful of human patience and 
suffering, whose young life has been one long, blood- 
less crucifixion. 

Blarney says, in her loud, motherish way, that 
" Rob is not so well as common, and that's why I 



264 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

didn't come earlier." Pen thinks it enough that 
she has come at all, and hastens to uncoil a hammock 
from some unheard-of place, and swings it across 
the breadth of his chamber. Filling it with pillows 
and comforters, he makes a nest for Robin, and 
deposits him safely within it. 

Blarney hastens back to her duties. Robin looks 
after her with helpless, trusting eyes. Old Pen sets 
the hammock swinging, and chats away in his cheer- 
fulest strain; while the nestling seems only half to 
listen, and half to be lost in a reverie. Pen realises 
the youngster isn't well as usual, and it distresses 
him ; for he finds all his heart-comfort in the simple 
spirituelle life of the deformed child. Perhaps the 
mysterious roll will work better, thinks the old clock- 
mender; and, with the delightful air of one who 
knows how to idealise life, and make it a kind of 
fairy thing such as children thrive on, he slowly 
unrolls the parcel, and produces the book — glorious 
in big type and gorgeous-coloured prints. Robin 
brightens a little, and laughs — like one from 
heaven, who is trying very hard to be satisfied with 
things earthly; but, somehow, his tender eyes drift 
off again into limitless spaces, and fasten upon the 
distant shores, that are so beautiful and beguiling, 
but visible to him alone. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 265 

The nautical clock-mender is as much at sea as 
in the brave days of old ; and, having vainly sought 
to cheer Robin into something like a song, he re- 
lapses into hopeless and pathetic silence, broken only 
by the flutter and cooing of the pigeons, who know 
Robin, and love him, as well as pigeons can. Old 
Pen abandons work ; for again and again the wheels 
go wrong, and he feels how useless it is to try to be 
himself, when his heart is wrecking on the broken 
image of his angel, swinging to and fro, to and fro, 
across the bars of sunshine in the narrow confines 
of that attic loft. 



11. 

NOON 

THIS is how they met. You see, Blarney's clock 
ran down, and, in spite of coaxing and threats, 
she couldn't get it up again. Something had to be 
done ; for Blarney did everything on time, and there 
wasn't a moment in the day that she could afford to 
lose. The whole court knew of it ; everybody had a 
hand in everybody's business, and the clock affair was 
the talk of the tenements. Some one had seen the 
little old sailor sunning his invalid clocks in the width 
of his window, and said as much to Blarney ; who at 
once resolved to seek this clock-man, and, with 
his help, begin life anew. Up she climbed into the 
clock-loft, and there the whole matter was settled. 
Pen knew, at a glance, the nature of the ailment; 
and in twenty minutes the wrong could be righted, 
and the world roll on as usual. 

Blarney's heart went out to the little man; and, 
having seen how lonesome and seafaring a life he 

266 



I 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 267 

must be leading in the '' maintop " (as he sometimes 
called his attic), she asked him down to sup, like a 
man among men, so soon as the machinery was well 
in motion. So down he went, clock in hand, and 
supped beneath Blarney's roof. Everything was 
dingy, and steaming, and sudsy — such was the sub- 
stance of Pen's observations the moment he entered 
the door. Blarney's man was away somewhere — 
had been away for years ; and it was well for them 
that he tarried, for he was one of those fathers by 
circumstance, and not by nature — such as never do 
well at home. All that was left of the domestic 
trouble was a little bundle of nerves and helpless- 
ness, called Robin. Pen saw the youngster, and 
loved him. Pen had a shell on him like an oyster; 
but oysters yawn sometimes, and within they are 
nothing but juicy flesh. So Pen opened his shell, 
took Robin to his heart, and never deserted him, for 
a moment, from that date. 

The old fellow vibrated between the " maintop " 
and Blarney's for days after that. He pretended to 
be nervous about the clock, and kept a close eye on 
it; but you could see that it was Robin who called 
him thither, and Robin who finally grew to expect 
him, and to fret if he failed to come. Pen brought 
tribute to the child — toys, fruits, and candies, and 



268 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

finally, the liliputian ship, that was a creation of his 
own, and marvellous in the eyes of Robin. 

At last, it was suggested that a kind of air- 
voyage to the '' maintop " would be a very pleasant 
episode in Robin's monotonous life; and such it 
must have been, for he was no sooner nested in Pen's 
hammock than his lips were unsealed, and he chat- 
tered in a wonderful fashion. It was something to 
be out of the steam and shadows of the court; it 
was something to be atop of the roofs, where the 
air was sweeter and the outlook inviting; but it 
was more than all to be in the atmosphere of one 
who loved him, and who fed him continually with 
healthful and life-giving magnetism. 

Pen told the whole romance of his life to Robin, 
and told it in such curious and entertaining instal- 
ments, that it lasted a very long time, and was better 
than anything Robin had ever heard before. In 
exchange for these travels and adventures of the 
youthful Pendulum, as narrated by himself, Robin 
used to talk, in his way, and tell of his experiences ; 
and marvellously strange they were, some of them — 
dreams by night and by day — walks and talks with 
the angels, such as startled Pen when he first heard 
them, and made him fear the child's mind was un- 
steady; but he grew to understand and to believe 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 269 

in them, for he felt their truth every day more and 
more. These angels of Robin's were what made a 
very lovable martyr of him. They were continually 
whispering to him words of encouragement, and 
opening before his eyes visions of loveliness, such 
as he sought in vain to describe to old Pen, who 
would turn to him, clock in hand and spectacles on 
forehead, lost in admiration of the child's prophecy. 

Robin didn't meddle with worldly affairs. He 
told no secrets ; he gave no clues to hidden wealth — 
his angels were not of that order. But he spoke 
such truths as once astonished the elders in the 
temple, and uttered wisdom such as no child may 
utter without the inspiration of the larger spirit 
that has suffered, and is freed through its sufferings. 
Almost daily they saw each other, and entered into 
their singular communion. We may not know how 
closely the souls of these two spiritual hermits be- 
came united, on account of a common isolation from 
their fellow men. Every hour the ties grew 
stronger; every moment the comfortable companion- 
ship increased. It was natural to look forward to 
some change in the conditions of life; for without 
this change, there would be nothing but stagnation 
and decay. 

The sun blazed overhead; the roar of business 



270 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 



rolled up from the city streets in low, continuous 
thunder; the pigeons sailed away on long foraging 
cruises, but returned again toward evening, furled 
their feather sails in the shelter of the window, and 
subsided into a row of plump, puffy creatures, up 
to their bills in feathers. The factory whistles 
screamed; clouds of steam rushed under the sun, 
sweeping the roofs with swift shadows; there was 
a clatter of dishes in the court below, now half in 
sunlight — the other half never yet knew how 
blessed a thing the sunlight is. Old Pen arose, 
brushed aside the wheels, and springs, and litter, 
made a luncheon that was dainty and tempting, 
awoke Robin, who was lost in a deep day-dream, 
and together they laughed and chatted like two 
children, in the meridian happiness of high noon. 



III. 



NIGHT 



DUSK in the hollow court, and deeper dusk in 
the '' maintop," for the shutter is up and 
there is a bit of crape hanging at the door-latch. 

In the afternoon there was a little train of 
mourners that wound out into the noisy street, bear- 
ing a piteous burden, and, by and by, they returned 
again into the gloom of their homes, empty-handed 
and empty-hearted. 

Robin's mother was noisy in her grief, but, after 
a little, she drowned her misery in soap-suds, and 
washed on to the end of her days. There were other 
children in the court, who seemed suddenly to 
develop various juvenile attractions that had been 
quite overlooked, by reason of Robin's sorrowful 
greatness; they soon filled the vacancy, and the 
world wagged much in the old way. Nature gener- 
ally manages to patch the wounds she makes, but not 
always! There was one whose mainspring snapped 

271 



272 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

short off when Robin and his angels deserted the 
" maintop." 

I suppose, were it not for the headway we happen 
to be under when a great calamity occurs, plenty of 
us would die before our time; but, somehow, we 
manage to run on, spite of everything, more slowly, 
perhaps, and, by and by, something gives us a new 
impulse, and we survive. 

There was nothing left for old Pendulum to do 
but to run down gradually, and that he did like a 
clock. It took him some time to do it, for he was 
well-regulated — one of those eight-day affairs, any- 
how, such as live simply and last long, and are good 
to depend on, which is about all that can be said of 
them. He slept late of morning, sometimes forget- 
ting to feed the dervishes, who whirled in vain all 
over the window-sill, and twisted their necks dread- 
fully trying to attract his attention. He never again 
heaved the lead with a note fluttering at the end of 
it — a note requesting the 'Moan of the boy; " he 
saw few people, and seemed to have shut his shell 
against the things of this life, growing all the while 
more like a waxwork, and hobbling about with the 
jerky movement of an automaton. 

Sometimes he fancied that Robin's ghost was 
swinging again in the misty hammock of the air; 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 273 

sometimes he heard a whisper that seemed to sparkle 
— it was so unHke anything human. This he took 
to be Robin's voice, and it comforted him, ahhough 
he was never able to distinguish a syllable it uttered. 
People thought him strange, and left him to his 
delusions, as people are very apt to do. They had 
always thought him uncommon, and, as though that 
were a curse rather than a blessing, they pitied him, 
little knowing how infinite are the entertainments of 
queerness when it is not interfered with by the med- 
dling world. Some people might have questioned 
the propriety of his flying a crape signal of distress 
at his door-latch when Robin left him, and he felt 
that he was going down like a sinking ship ; but he 
knew the justice of it, for in the sight of God he was 
a truer father to Robin than was the man who called 
him into life, and Robin's natural home was in Pen's 
heart, and nowhere else. 

Night drew on apace, the thunder of the streets 
subsided, the thick clouds of humanity separated, the 
tempest of business and worry was over, and out of 
the hollow court came no sound of life, save the 
uneasy and muffled trot of some dog who prowled 
in the darkness below. Overhead the stars blinked 
merrily and afar off. There is little sympathy in 
starlight; and old Pen realised it as he closed the 



274 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

shutters for the last time, not caring to take a second 
look at any of his surroundings. He did nothing 
rash, but he was too cunning a clock-mender not to 
know when one's machinery is worn out. Pen 
straightened his bunk, put off his garments with a 
kind of sacred ceremony, as though, link by link, 
he was parting the chain that bound him to the 
earth. Having set all things in order, he stretched 
himself in his narrow bed — and slept ! 

Dust on the window, through whose closed shut- 
ter sift threads of golden light ; dust on the hanging 
garden of books, and on the rigging of the toy ship, 
wrecked on the upper shelf; dust on the forehead, 
and on the thin hair, and on the pale hands folded 
in rest — dust unto dust, and chaos come again, in 
that small world within four walls. 



LONDON SKETCHES 



LONDON SKETCHES 

I. 

HAMPSTEAD HEATH 

HAMPSTEAD HEATH is one of the bald 
spots in London. There are not many 
such in that overgrown, overpopulated, overcast 
city, and I was glad when I found, after a ten days' 
toss at sea betwixt Sandy Hook and Holyhead, that 
I had stranded on a shoal of suburban villas boasting 
four several chimes of high-church bells and an 
aristocracy of its own. 

Every villa has its brick-walled garden, its pair 
of towering gate-posts with great balls on the top 
of them, and a given name much too pretty to be 
ignored; though the catalogue is so long, no one 
save only the postman hopes to familiarise himself 
with it. 

The bells tolled the quarter-hours with such de- 
liberation on that first night in Hampstead that I 

277 



278 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

despaired of the arrival of dawn; but in the course 
of nature I dropped asleep in a strange bed that 
seemed not to have been slept in for ages. 

I hate strange beds in strange rooms; they are 
so horribly empty that it is impossible for any single 
gentleman to more than half inhabit them. Do not 
think me ungrateful; I acknowledge that a large 
engraving of the death of Nelson hung on the mantel 
in an oaken frame; I confess that I had two toilet- 
sets, where one would have been quite enough for 
a fellow of my simple tastes ; there were also a school 
of rooks in the chimney, and a half -suppressed riot 
among the children in the next room — whose num- 
ber I know not to this hour, but I should say twenty 
or thirty at least, all whispering at once and then 
suddenly stopping as if they had been throttled, but 
recovering again in season to renew their jubilee, 
and launch disconnected sentences into the middle of 
my room through a hollow keyhole in a big square 
lock on the door. 

For all this, I was deucedly lonesome! At day- 
break I arose, looked out upon the respectable street 
that seemed to run through the middle of an eternal 
Sunday, and then to my amazement the four chimes 
agreed in chorus that it was nine A. M., and not a 
moment earlier. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 279 

I was dumfounded ; the opaque, midwinter sky 
was a delusion ; these Londoners might as well have 
built under a weather-stained canvas for all the light 
they get from heaven at this season. 

With the utmost haste I repaired to the station 
and took the train for Fleet Street. I had resolved 
upon an immediate change of base. At the office of 
the Saturday Frolic I was sure to get important 
letters, and this was a joyful prospect for a man 
who has not had the exquisite pleasure of breaking 
a seal for a whole fortnight. The anxious landlady 
at the Heath had warned me against the bad air of 
the city ; heaven be praised that she was not doomed 
to soil the snowy streamers fluttering from her 
widow's cap in the foggy foulness of that district. 
She sought to beguile me, to dissuade me from my 
fell purpose ; she besought me not to be misled by the 
evil advice of the tempters I should be sure to fall 
in with so soon as I deserted the serene shades of 
Hampstead ; but I went out manfully, took carriage 
by the underground road, and was instantly plunged 
into pitchy darkness that was dense enough to leave 
a bad taste in the mouth. You see, I had been salting 
my lungs so lately, that when I came to smoke them 
the double cure rather overdid the business. 

The vast convenience and the unutterable gloom 



28o EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

of these intestinal railways left me, after ten minutes 
of dingy suspense, in a state of perplexity bordering 
on Fleet Street, which was just what I desired; and 
I had no sooner come to the surface in London 
proper than I ran against Temple Bar ! 

For a moment, I could think of nothing but the 
top cover of the old pink magazine; but I next 
thought of my letters, and at once began climbing 
up the street, by the house numbers, until I came 
to the office of the Frolic. 

I was quite at home, of course; everybody is at 
home there. I threw myself upon a lounge that 
nearly ingulfed me, and every spring of which 
shrieked out at such rudeness on my part, while I 
opened my letters one after the other, with the 
utmost deliberation. Now that I had them in hand, 
I believe I could have played with them for a whole 
week, quite satisfied to gloat over their superscrip- 
tions and wonder what news could possibly be 
awaiting me within. There was nothing of interest 
to any one outside of the family. Tom had gone 
off again — you don't know Tom — but he had gone 
off again without waiting for an introduction; he 
is always going off somewhere or another, and seems 
to come home for the sole purpose of taking a fresh 
start. Nell was slowly recovering from an illness 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 281 

of which I had never dreamed — you see, I had 
dodged my letters over in America, and here they 
were, having accumulated under all sorts of dates. 
Henry's baby was teething as usual — Henry's baby 
does nothing but teeth from one year's end to the 

other. Sixthly and lastly, J , the capital J , 

wrote me in his rustic and almost unintelligible 

hand. J wrote from the beautiful mountains of 

somezvhere, but a stone's throw from the classical 
something, I could not make out exactly what, but 
it did not matter; before I could answer his letter 
he would be some other where. J was melan- 
choly as usual, — the blue- J , I called him, — 

and like all melancholy travellers he was skipping 

over the Continent in the liveliest fashion. J said 

to me, " Go at once into Bloomsbury Lodgings and 
pitch your tent in my room." That was only 

J 's confounded poetry of speech; he didn't 

mean that there was no roof to the house, and that 
I must camp out on his floor. Hang J 's phrase- 
ology! Now just listen to this: "My ship blows 
eastward, and when the wind fills your sails again, 
follow after me, for there is peace under the palms ! " 

The truth is, J was high and dry somewhere in 

Germany or Italy, and that is his way of informing 
a fellow of the fact. Again, " Gordon will welcome 



2^2 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

you to the House of Mysteries in Museum Street; 
Josie will post you as to everything ; God bless you, 
my boy, and farewell ! " — then followed a signature 
that looked as if it had been written by a real blue- 
jay with his tail feathers dipped in ink. 

So Gordon was to meet me at the house of mys- 
teries, and, as a stranger, give me welcome. I 
wondered what manner of creature Gordon might 
be, and overcome with wonderment, dived into a 
hansom cab, and headed for Bloomsbury. 

I suppose you know that Bloomsbury has seen 
its best days. There was a time when the square had 
some tone, but that was long ago ; and now, if you 
want to see respectable nonentities who go about the 
streets like mourners, — I do not mean your pro- 
fessional wailers, who cast a shadow even when 
there is no sunshine, but subdued people, without 
malice, without guile, without anything to distin- 
guish them or distress them, — just take a turn up 
Oxford Street toward High Holborn, and drop off 
ill Bloomsbury Parish. 

You must not go too far along Museum Street, 
for it presently sloughs its last vestige of humble 
respectability and becomes dreary Drury Lane. 
There is where we kept our human curiosities, or 
tried to, though some of them refused to be caged. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 283 

The flying horse in the hansom having whirled 
me through deep, dark streets, wherein everybody 
and everything looked all of a mouse-colour, sud- 
denly planted himself before a perfectly blank and 
expressionless house, not twenty paces from Oxford 
Street, and there he rocked to and fro and blew off 
twin columns of steam from a pair of nostrils that 
actually gasped for breath. I alighted; entered an 
apology for a hall that was open upon the street, 
read the hopeful name of Gordon on a large brass 
door-plate, and then rapped for admittance. 

I gave, for evident reasons, the popular gentle- 
man's rap, which consists of a sharp and prolonged 
tremor, as if the teeth of the knocker were chatter- 
ing with the cold, and concludes with a decisive and 
uncompromising thump. You may hope for nothing 
after that, save a possible repetition of the same 
characteristic rat-tat-too in case after a gentlemanly 
interval there is no response. 

I had time to observe that the stone threshold of 
the street door was scrupulously clean — I began to 
like Gordon; that in the corners of the door there 
were little dust-drifts — I suspended judgment for 
a moment ; the brass door-knob was a blaze of light, 
the keyhole wreathed itself with a garland of unde- 
niable finger stains — my mind wavered. Evidently, 



284 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

Gordon was a queer fellow, but a man is ever a poor 
housekeeper ; Gordon might be one of the inexplica- 
bles of this house of mysteries. I heard a pair of 
shoes — the shoes that are worn down at the heel 
— climbing steps that must have been steep, from 
the sound; it was evident that some form of life 
was rising painfully out of the cellar. A hand groped 
over half the door on the inner side, and twice struck 
the knob with some violence before it was secured ; 
the door swung open a little doubtfully, and an 
old-young face or a young-old face, I hardly know 
which, looked up at me with a delighted expression, 
as if I were a bright episode unexpectedly happening 
on the very brink of her cellar life. Was this the 
Gordon and a woman? No; this was only Mrs. 
Bumps, the charwoman. " Oh ! I thought I might 
be speaking to the landlady ! " " By no manner of 
means," said Mrs. Bumps, smiling a smile that was 
emphasised with three sentinel teeth stationed on the 
blank wall of her upper gum. Those teeth seemed 
to grow longer and more lonesome while I watched 
them with unwilling eyes. Mrs. Bumps annoyed 
me; her shoulders were much broader than was 
necessary in a woman who had no height at all; her 
back was too full, and this made her look as if her 
head had been set on wrong-side before. Mrs. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 285 

Bumps couldn't help all this — who said she could ? 
— but she needn't be so horribly good-natured over 
it, as if it were rather a blessing than otherwise. 
Perhaps Mrs. Bumps was a mystery; she looked 
like one. Well, she tumbled back into the cellar, 
and in a moment ushered up Gordon. 

Gordon was a woman and a wudow, but she had 
been a widow so many years she was grown quite 
natural again. I was welcomed at once. I was led, 
or rather driven, up three flights of stairs by the two 
women, who gave me chase; at the last floor I 
paused and awaited my pursuers. Gordon ushered 

me into a pretty room — J 's little nest, with 

two deep window^s looking out on a regiment of 
chimney-pots on the roof of the house opposite. 

J 's trunk was in the corner. J moults 

something wherever he goes; I wonder that there 
is anything left of him. 

Mrs. Bumps would kindle my fire at once, though 
it was not bitter cold ; Gordon would pay the cabby 
at the door, and on the morrow I would rescue my 
luggage from the covetous chamber at Hampstead. 
As for the next hour or two, I had resolved that it 
should be sacred to nothing at all ; so I buried myself 

in J 's big easy chair, and strove fervently to 

compose my soul in patience. 



286 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

My peace was small. Mrs. Bumps kindled the 
fire as only a London charwoman can; she built 
it of next to nothing, and made it burn in spite of 
a head wind and a heavy swell — I was the heavy 
swell in this case. Mrs. Bumps threw herself before 
the grate in the attitude of prayer, and with a corner 
of her wide apron in each hand she wrestled with the 
elements. Had Mrs. Bumps intended to exhaust the 
atmosphere of the room, she could not have laboured 
more diligently. As an amateur scientist, I was 
deeply interested in the result of this experiment; 
and, therefore, with my chin propped upon my 
clenched fists, I breathlessly awaited developments. 
Mrs. Bumps rolled her small black eyes toward me, 
though her knotty profile was still in bold relief, and 
I felt that I was being carefully scrutinised by the 
queer little woman whose extraordinary optics were 
by this time so disarranged that one seemed to have 
worked itself around over her ear, while the other 
lodged on the bridge of her nose. 

Twice was Mrs. Bumps enveloped in a smoke- 
cloud that belched out of the chimney like a personal 
insult ; twice she spewed the thing out of her mouth, 
while with Christian resignation, having been smit- 
ten on the one cheek, she turned to it the other. No 
doubt she deserved some credit for her forbearance, 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 287 

though that sort of thing is quite in her line of busi- 
ness. By and by Mrs. Bumps, having estabhshed a 
lukewarm flame in one corner of the grate, withdrew 
to the door, turned about two or three times, as if 
she had forgotten the way out, caught her wind-sail 
— I mean her apron — on a key of colossal propor- 
tions that shot out of the lock like a small battering- 
ram, and then curtsied herself out of the room as 
if the lintel of the door-frame were much too low for 
her. 

I was at last alone, and had nothing to do but 
realise it. I heard the long, loud thunder of Oxford 
Street, a peal that crashes for three and twenty hours 
without stopping; a million rushing feet stormed 
upon the pavements within a stone's throw of my 
little solitude. How vastly different it was from the 
sepulchral solemnity of Hampstead, with its Estab- 
lished Church bells ringing their tedious changes. 
Those bells always exasperated me, simply because 
they were Established. I fear that compulsory 
creeds are a mistake — of course, I refer to all creeds 
save my own ! While I was rapidly drifting toward 
infidelity, with a pack of church-going bells at my 
heels, there came a rap at my door. 

It was Gordon again. I have observed that 
Gordon is apt to split a reverie like a wedge, and 



288 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

that Mrs. Bumps, God bless her ! would smoke you 
out of house and home if you only gave her time. 
Gordon, with her ever-watchful eye, had come to 
cover the tracks of the charwoman, and the char- 
woman, in a perpetual state of morbid expectation, 
— as if she knew something awful were about to 
happen, which, however, it had failed to do up to 
date, — dropped in behind her mistress with a scared 
look in her face. 

I wondered if one of the household mysteries was 
about to be revealed, when Gordon, with the air of a 
baroness very much reduced, said, " Was there any- 
thing you was wanting, sir? " — so wording it, that 
I felt it was then too late to get it, let me want it 
never so much. I shook at her the unutterable 
*' No ! " that was too deep for speech, and wished 
with all my heart that she was in Halifax, which I 
believe is also an English possession. Heaven forbid 
that I, in my selfish desires for the quiet for which 
I am quite willing to pay liberally, should deprive 
her Majesty of one faithful subject! Gordon was 
not yet satisfied. " Would I like to have Josie sent 
up? " — as if Josie was something to be brought in 
on a platter. " Oh, yes, send Josie up! " replied I, 
resolving that Josie's bones should be taken down 
again as soon as my appetite was sated. The imperi- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 289 

ous Gordon merely waved her hand Hke a wand, and 
Mrs. Bumps fled from the room. I heard her clat- 
tering down the stairs as if she were descending in 
two parts; at any rate, she seemxd to be hastening 
on in her stocking-feet, while her shoes followed 
after her from mere force of habit. 

Gordon tarried. She moved everything in the 
room, and replaced it, with the air of one who is 
doing you the greatest possible favour. Why — ah ! 
why — must Gordon be an idiot ? Was it not enough 
that Josie was put upon me as if I was an unprinci- 
pled widower who is at last cornered and saddled 
with a long-n^lected child? I knew what Josie 
was; you could not mislead me twice on names, 
and as I took Gordon for a man and lost, must I 
take Josie for a girl? By no means. I knew what 
Josie was : he was one of those white-faced, white- 
haired, white-eyed, white-livered boys, who ought 
to have been girls all the time, and had a mighty 
narrow escape as it was; an overpetted, overfed 
youngster, who had an abundance of unchecked 
childish impudence and a knack of getting the best 
of you in the long run. For this reason he was not 
only tolerated but made much of; for this reason 
he was beloved, and belittled, and called '' Josie " 
instead of Joseph. If the child had had one particle 



290 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

of colour in his character, he would have been a Joe 
and a Godsend. It is hard to catch me on a name, 
my intuitions are so remarkable. Gordon did not 
turn me out of the big chair to see if it was all right, 
or whether or not I needed anything done to me. 
She would have come to us next, but for the sound 
of voices on the stairs. Gordon went to the door — 
the door that opens so awkwardly, you are sure to 
get in a tangle between it and the bed — and there 
was, of course, a predicament for a moment, during 
which I secretly rejoiced, and then Gordon said, 
with the insufferable air of one who is conscious of 
giving you the best of a bargain, " Well, sir, here is 
Josie!" 

I turned toward the little imp. There stood a 
child with a round baby face, full of curious inquiry ; 
exquisitely sensitive lips of the brightest scarlet 
glowed in brilliant contrast to the milky whiteness 
of the skin; brown, drowsy eyes, under the shadow 
of those half-awakened lids that one looks for in 
childhood only, seemed to be saying all the time, 
" I wonder what you are like — ah, I do wonder 
w^hat you are like ! " Yet Josie was no child ; her 
form was womanly. I believe I told you she was a 
woman; you know I was sure of it all the while. 
Even the jaunty sailor jacket, with its broad flannel 



I 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 291 

collar trimmed with big anchors, could not hide the 
full and graceful curves of the exceedingly feminine 
figure. But I wonder why that face had forgotten to 
mature while the trim little figure under it was 
growing so womanly. 

Josie came forward at once and put out a white 
hand that was too small to be shaken much, and said 
something which I am sure must have been pleasant, 
but I was too embarrassed to notice it. Having seen 
us both safely seated, the elders withdrew. I must 
say Gordon's patronage was a little offensive; and 
as for Mrs. Bumps's inexpressible joy over our 
union, it was positively exasperating. Why were 
two such people combined against my peace of mind 
in Bloomsbury Lodgings? Ah, there was the mys- 
tery! 

Josie and I, alone with ourselves, w^ere at once 
familiar. Josie had heard all about me from the 

personal recollections of J ; and I played that 

Josie's name had been a household word in our 
family ever since I could remember. We were both 
delighted, and confessed as much, as if it were quite 
the thing to gush at first sight. The fire had gone 
out ; Josie was the first to notice it, and she insisted 
upon rekindling it herself, although I was quite 
warm enough without it. It was as pretty as a 



292 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

picture to see those two little hands fishing out the 
big black lumps of coal, and when she took hold of a 
hot piece, now and then, she dropped it with the 
dearest little scream that made me shiver with 
horror. It was great fun ! Once, while her slender 
white fingers were dipping into the ugly grate, I 
told her they looked to me like dainty silver tongs, 
but she did not seem to notice it, and perhaps it was 
not much to say, after all. 

When everything was ready, we lit the fire with a 
whole newspaper, that required much careful watch- 
ing, or we might have been destroyed like the mar- 
tyrs, and so we both watched it, with our two heads 
close together. The fire was a great success. I 
never before knew what fun it is to make a fire. It 
must be quite delightful to be a charwoman or a 
stoker. But I found that it makes a fellow hungry, 
and so, as it was Josie's business to " post " me, I 
inquired about dinner. Gordon, when desired, fur- 
nished orders on the shortest notice, in a fellow's 
room. Would Gordon double the dinner, and lay 
the cloth for two ? Gordon would do that very thing 
with an ease that looked like sleight-of-hand. Would 
Josie join a fellow in his frugal repast ? Josie would, 
if she were likely to afford any pleasure by so doing. 
Well, what did she like best in the world ? — I meant 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 293 

that was eatable. She Hked just what I liked, and 
did not seem to care a farthing for anything else. 
Did you ever in your life hear of anything so lucky 
and so strange? We both rung for Mrs. Bumps; 
we both reached the bell-pull at the same moment : 
somehow we kept thinking of the same things in the 
same way all the evening, and when the secret was 
out we laughed in chorus and wondered how it ever 
happened. Mrs. Bumps dropped into the room on 
top of a thundering rap at the door that was quite 
startling; Mrs. Bumps dropped out again, with an 
order for eggs and bacon, tea and toast, and a cold 
rice-pudding with lots of raisins in it, on her mind. 
Josie and I set the table. All the books, and papers, 
and pens went up on the bureau; out of a small 
locker that seemed to have suddenly appeared at one 
side of the chimney came table-cloth, table-mats, and 
napkins as big as towels; out of another locker, on 
the other side — whose discovery was also magical 
— Josie reached me teapot, teacups, saucers, and 
plates. In a box under the sofa we found knives, 
forks, and spoons. The sugar-bowl was in the top 
drawer of the bureau ; the caster was in the hall. It 
was quite like being wrecked on a desert island, 
everything was so convenient. I asked Josie if she 
had read " Foul Play." She was guiltless ; but 



294 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

before I could begin to tell her how nice it was, Mrs. 
Bumps threw her head in at the door to inquire 
what we would have for dinner. Poor thing ! — 
poor, poor thing ! How I pitied her ! She had for- 
gotten that the bill of fare had been intrusted to her 
half an hour before; for on her way down-stairs in 
her mind she digested everything therein, and, of 
course, thought no more about it. Presently she 
remembered us, and thinking we might be getting 
hungry — for children are always doing something 
of that kind, and Mrs. Bumps looked upon us as 
little better than sucklings — she came up to inquire 
if we would eat at once or wait until some other 
time. Mrs. Bumps leaves everything unfinished and 
tumbles headlong into a new task with an energy 
that is appalling. She never completes anything; 
she goes her round of duties, taking a stitch in each, 
and flying from one to another, like a bee that makes 
a great deal too much noise for the amount of honey 
she gathers. Mrs. Bumps retired with a second 
edition of our menu, and in due season dinner 
arrived. 

The gas was lighted; J 's Httle nest was as 

warm and cosy as possible ; while without the streets 
were choked with dull, grimy fog. I looked out 
upon the blurred lamps that grew smaller and 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 295 

fainter, and ended at last in a long line of sparks. 
Hosts of shadows moved to and fro under a sky 
that seemed to rest on the roofs of the houses. What 
a roar there was, notwithstanding that the crowd 
looked rather unsubstantial. What a clatter of 
wheels, a snapping of whips, a shouting of drivers. 
It occurred to me that I should never be able to 
breathe freely in a city so densely populated that 
there actually does not seem room for one more. I 
turned from the window, shook out the warm red 
curtains with white fringes, and seated myself at 
the head of the table, quite like a family man. Could 
anything have been jollier, I wonder! Josie made 
the tea, I passed the bacon and eggs, and when we 
came to the rice-pudding, which was actually black 
in the face with raisins, we were quite too happy for 
anything. We wdieeled back to the fire. With my 
utmost skill I rolled two cigarettes, and then paused 
for a moment. Would Josie join me in a quiet 
smoke ? — the best thing for digestion, you know, 
and there is nothing that so preys upon the English 
mind as digestion. Yes ; Josie would smoke, and 
puff faint white clouds out of a pair of dainty nos- 
trils, to my intense and entire satisfaction. Then 
we chattered like magpies — with a difference, for 
the magpies of my acquaintance keep saying the 



296 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

same thing over and over again, while we said 
everything that we could think of. 

It came out that Josie was somebody's independ- 
ent little sister, who, from choice, had taken her case 
into her own hands, and managed it very creditably. 
She had much time to herself, and therefore, being 
a warm-hearted and thoughtful little creature, she 
did what she could to bring sunshine into the lives 
of the Bloomsbury lodgers. She told me of a certain 
count, a refugee, who lived on a wonderfully small 
pension and had a crest on his visiting-card; and 
of a baron, bent double with age, and learning, and 
rheumatism, who translated great books for great 
publishers. When she first mentioned these people 
of distinction, I began to fear that she moved in 
the higher circles, and I was half-disappointed ; for 
when one comes upon a sweet wild-rose one hates 
to discover that its roots are packed in a china pot. 
But there was no cause for regret. The count and 
the baron were in Bloomsbury Lodgings — yea, 
under the very same roof with us. 

" Well, what else? " asked I, getting interested. 

" Oh, there was the ' Diana of Song ' on the first 
floor. She had an invalid husband whom she sup- 
ported, and therefore she hunted harmonies at one 
of the music-halls in Oxford Street. There was the 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 297 

ill-bred American, second floor back, who was 
always complaining and giving Gordon no end of 
trouble. Then there was Junius, the journalist — 
a good American — whose right to the second 
floor back was undisputed, but as he was away in the 
country, the insufferable other party was afflicting 
the premises for the time being. Junius was ex- 
pected back shortly ; for no one who has once known 
London can long keep out of it." 

" And what is the mystery connected with the 
house? " 

''Mystery!" Josie had never dreamed of such 
a thing in London. At that moment there came 
three distinct thumps on the wall over my bed. I 
turned to Josie, and said, "Sh-h-sh!" in a voice 
that was blood-curdling. These supernatural mani- 
festations are not agreeable when one is away from 
home. Josie laughed, and assured me that the 
lodger in the next room was always banging some- 
thing with his poker. The conversation subsided. 
I began to feel uncomfortable, not on account of 
the mystery that hung over the house, but because 
T had nothing eke to do, and it was absolutely neces- 
sary that I should do something. The fire burned 
cheerily; it were vain to stir it, or to refer to it in 
any way. The gas did not shriek at the top of its 



298 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

bent. Nobody dropped in upon us. What could 
I do? 

You see, it had occurred to me that it was not 
exactly the correct thing for us to be sitting up in 
that lonely room together. The sudden conviction 
that had forced itself upon my — conscience, shall 
I say ? — that we were a rather improper young 
couple whose reputations were at stake, threw me 
entirely off my guard. I felt that something must 
be done, and I said, with assumed calmness, " Josie, 
shall we go to the pantomime? " Josie was 
'* agreeable; " I do not believe she could be any- 
thing else under any circumstances whatever. The 
Christmas spectacles were still " on," and we ran 
over the tempting catalogue of novelties for the 
evening, finally selecting the one which seemed to 
promise the most for a shilling. Josie put on her 
sailor-hat and looked like a female smuggler. I 
waited at the street door with an umbrella — for, 
sooner or later, you must come to it in that country 
— and then, with Josie's plump little glove tucked 
away in the comer of my elbow, I began to wonder 
if I was bettering our case, though I confess it did 
not trouble me so much after that; and, with light 
steps and happy hearts, we went out into the great 
world together. 



11. 

BLOOMSBURY LODGINGS 

FUN it surely was, that run through the streets 
so filled with fog that we were continually 
colliding with something or other. We lost our 
way for a moment, just long enough for us to 
feel like the " Babes in the Woods; " then we found 
it in the best possible place, and that was close to 
Covent Garden, the goal of all our hopes. What a 
busy, buzzing throng filled that great auditorium; 
what a comfortable warmth pervaded the whole 
house, charged with the faint, subtile odour that is 
inseparable from the theatre, and is like nothing else 
under the heavens; a mixture of dry water-colours 
and gas, but delicious for its association with a 
thousand fairy glens, and illuminated waterfalls, 
and large full moons that actually rise and set and 
that were never known to quarter at any season; 
with dainty shepherds and shepherdesses, and real 
flocks of milk-white sheep; with enchanted castles 

299 



300 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

and marvellous cities, and knights and ladies who 
move to the perpetual thrumming of stringed instru- 
ments ; with unseen choruses voicing in the air, and 
transformations more mysterious and more beautiful 
than dreams ! — all these we saw that night. I was 
fascinated; who is there that is not when his eyes 
for the first time witness a genuine old-fashioned 
English Christmas play? We screamed with de- 
light — everybody did ; we were like a couple of 
children, Josie and I. It is such a pleasure to be 
like children when you are not obliged to ! 

We stayed until midnight, and could have stayed 
until morning, I suppose, but the great crowd flowed 
out into the street and carried us along with it. The 
dense fog had resolved itself into a decided dew, 
the walks were slippery ; we trotted cautiously along, 
talking over the glorious events of the evening. 
My heart was filled with infinite pity for the little 
thing at my side, who, I feared, would catch her 
death-cold on the damp pavements. There were no 
hansoms unoccupied, everybody was getting wet, 
and I again thought with horror of her premature 
demise, and said to her, ** Josie, how would you 
like a nice little bird in a nice little cage to hang in 
your window? " 

Josie said she would like it of all things the best ; 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 301 

she would in fact love it! I have never been able 
to trace the connection between her death-cold and 
a bird-cage, but I know that they came together into 
my mind. I solemnly resolved that a forest of 
singing-birds should shortly make jubilant the 
matins in Bloomsbury. Josie kindly added that she 
would show me a shop down in the Seven Dials 
where I could get anything in the bird line from a 
roc to a wren. It seemed to me that something about 
half-way between would hit it; perhaps a gray 
parrot with a bald head, who should learn to say, 
" Josie, pretty Josie," from morning until night, as 
if he were making serious fun of her; and so we 
gabbled on as foolishly as possible until we came 
to the lodgings, and then I took out my night-key, 
just like a young husband; and all this time I 
felt a tremendous responsibility, though why I can- 
not conceive. 

The voice of the Gordon ascended to us from the 
lower regions : " Children, won't you come down 
and warm your feet?" said the voice. Why not? 
Perhaps the seat of the mystery lay buried in that 
abyss! Josie and I took each other by the hand; 
it was horribly dark in the hall, and you see I 
didn't know the way. We turned a sudden angle at 



302 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

the head of the stairs, and slowly descended into the 
catacomb. 

The catacombs of London are past finding out, 
unless you are on terms of intimacy with the ten 
thousand gnomish landladies who haunt them. We 
entered the subterranean chamber in Museum Street, 
and found Gordon seated in a corner by the range. 
A limp party with a weak neck, whose head tipped 
unpleasantly, was supporting himself on one corner 
of a table in the centre of the room ; he had a blonde 
disordered beard that looked as if it needed weeding, 
and he was grasping vaguely at a fat cat that tripped 
about among the tea things on the table as only a 
fat cat can. We drew up to the fire, threw off our 
moist wrappings, and were offered cups of weak 
tea by Gordon, who at once introduced the subject 
of the pantomime, and treated it just as you would 
expect it to be treated by one who has passed the 
last thirty years in a catacomb. Gordon was a 
creature of the past, yet time seemed to have no 
more effect upon her than if she had been a mummy. 
On the four walls of her audience-chamber hung a 
series of small black frames enclosing memorial 
cards; the funereal aspect of these pocket-epitaphs 
struck me the moment I entered the room. There 
was recorded the long list of those who had known 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 303 

Gordon in other days ; if I had been assured that 
the bodies of her departed friends and acquaint- 
ances were reposing on the other side of the parti- 
tion, I could not have been any more impressed. 
The remainder of the room was Hned with shelves, 
full of dinner-plates arranged like a row of full 
moons, each decorated with a sepia landscape of the 
supposed Italian school — two lovers loving under 
a castle about the size of a thimble, at the mouth of 
a wild valley too narrow to admit of exploration. 

There were also a few photographs of exceed- 
ingly plain people, who seemed to have been 
frightened by some brutal photographer into having 
their pictures taken. On the mantle stood two 
diminutive Highlanders, who must have had hot 
china poured all over them at an exceedingly early 
age, for their outlines were barely traceable. A 
few daubs of paint on the front of these ornaments 
served so effectually to mislead me, that I was never 
weary of studying them and wondering which was 
which. 

Gordon didn't introduce me to the young man at 
the table; but I forgave her, inasmuch as it was 
quite evident that he was off his balance ; he talked 
familiarly and dreamily with the ladies, ignoring 
my presence for a time, but our eyes met once or 



304 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

twice, and got fastened so that we had some 
difficulty in withdrawing them. 

He tried to capture the fat cat, was wounded in 
the attempt, grew hot, and at once renewed an un- 
pleasant topic under discussion when Josie and I 
interrupted the conversation by our entrance. A 
bottle in his chamber had been found with the cork 
out, quite empty; he remembered distinctly that 
the bottle was once filled; he had no recollection 
of anything further on the subject, and he wished to 
know if Gordon was in the habit of drawing corks 
all over the house. Gordon flushed up and said, 
with much severity, " Count, don't be impudent ! " 
The count tittered like an imbecile, and turned to 
Josie, expressing a strong suspicion that she was the 
culprit. My blood boiled for a moment, but when 
I saw that Josie took no more notice of the insult 
than if It had never been given, I merely frowned, 
and wondered if it were not bedtime. 

The rain was pouring on the sidewalk just above 
the window. We heard feet slipping by the house. 
Occasionally two pairs of feet would come together, 
pause for a moment, and then pass on ; it was rather 
dreary than otherwise. The front hall door was still 
open; it was a glass door with a movable shutter 
that had every night to be bolted in its place. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 305 

Gordon, who was at times inclined to be very much 

of a lady, usually performed this midnight duty; 
but when the heavens were falling and the pavements 
afloat, it was no small undertaking. On this night, 
Gordon seemed in no mood to brave the elements, 
and, therefore, with an air that brooked no refusal, 
she said : " Mr. Count, will you have the kindness 
to put up the shutter ? " 

The double title, the patronage, the gracious smile, 
as if her Majesty had requested Sir Something 
Somebody to indite a message to the Earl of So- 
and-so, were beyond doubt the feature of the even- 
ing; and the Count, without a murmur, departed 
on his mission. 

I also went; I knew not what order in the guise 
of a request awaited me. I climbed the long stairs 
that turned sharp corners, so that it was like going 
up a lighthouse to get into my room. Josie fol- 
lowed, but stopped at her door on the way. I called 
to her from the top of the dark, lonesome hall — 
you see our hall stood on end, and I believe that 
darkness, like hot air, ascends to the top of such 
a house as that. I said to her as prettily as I knew 
how, and as if the idea had just occurred to me: 
" Ah — ah ! by the way, Josie ! " '' Well," answered 
she, and such a deep, quiet, refreshing well as it 



3o6 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

was; an unfathomable well, out of which a fellow 
might draw any amount of consolation, and yet not 
exhaust it! "Ah — um! " and then I hesitated, as 
one is apt to hesitate when he would ask a favour if 
he were sure of its being granted, and finds some 
comfort in the thought that he has only to ask — 
but won't. " Will — will you come up to break- 
fast in the morning? " cried I, getting bold. 

" Oh, yes ! At what time? " 

" Any time you like " — as if there was a per- 
petual breakfast in my room. 

"And what time is thatf" with the least little 
bit of a laugh, as if she didn't believe that I was 
always breakfasting. 

"How will nine o'clock do?" — as if it were a 
little doubtful. 

" Oh, very well; good night." 

" Well, — good night, I suppose," said I, feeling 
rather disconsolate at the idea. It is a dismal thing 
to plunge into a solitary feather-bed, and know you 
must wallow there until morning. I was never 
in my life more wide awake; I turned up the gas 
as high as it would go; poked the gray coals in the 
grate, but found not a spark alive; rolled a cigar- 
ette, and began to walk up and down the room; 
presently struck my toe against something under the 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 307 

sofa; explored, found one high-heeled, shapely 
bronze slipper, just long enough for a cigar-case. 

I knew what little princess had lost her slipper — 
one who had been into the ashes that very day — 
or rather the day before, for it was past midnight. 
I could have woven a story out of it, if there had 
only been a fire; but it was chilly, and the noise 
in the street had nearly subsided, leaving me quite 
a prey to melancholy. There is something gloomy 
in the thought of so great a city in insensibility ; it 
is as if the ghost of the Plague had revisited it. I 
thought of this, and plunged into bed with a shudder. 

Do you know, somehow that little slipper found 
its way into a chair by the head of the bed ? It was, 
of course, quite accidental ; but I did not feel so 
lonesome after that. 

The still hours came; between two and three life 
seemed to be suspended ; the church bells' toll, every 
quarter of an hour, was all that I had to entertain 
me. Then a cart was heard rattling down the street. 
It seemed to me that no one cart ever before made 
so great a clatter ; two or three others soon followed 
it, and then they came by dozens and by scores, and 
the voices of men shouting to one another announced 
the dawn of day. It was only three a. m., but the 
noise increased, and within an hour the whole city 



3o8 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

was roaring, and steaming, and fretting with busy 
life. 

I have never yet been able to discover the use of a 
London winter morning. One does not care to turn 
one's self into the street as the insetting tide of shop- 
keepers is at its height; the scouring of brass- 
work, the cleansing of windows, the scrubbing of 
door-steps, though interesting phenomena, can not 
administer much comfort to a soul in search of 
sympathy; it is too dark to read with ease, and 
what can a fellow do ? 

I rose that first morning in Bloomsbury, drew 
my curtains, and found the house opposite em- 
balmed in an atmosphere like amber. A '' pea- 
soup " morning, wdth the fog, of a woolly texture, 
lying flat against the window^ was the unpromising 
commencement of a new day. I returned disheart- 
ened to bed. It is useless to particularise the morn- 
ings that followed one another in quick succession, 
as soon as they got started. Time flies in Blooms- 
bury as if it were not the most agreeable place to 
lodge in, but I had no reason to complain of my 
accommodations. Josie knocked at my door and 
announced breakfast under way, before I was up the 
second time. I pitched " Jack Sheppard " into a 
chair (one likes to re-read those books on the spot), 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 309 

dressed hurriedly, threw open the window — 
closed it again immediately, for my eyes smarted 
with the dense, smoky air that crowded in from 
the street. 

Mrs. Bumps, who hovered about the door long 
before I admitted her, tidied the apartment ; Gordon 
herself appeared with a tray of such enormous pro- 
portions that breakfast for two found plenty of 
room on it. Josie entered, as welcome as a sunbeam 
in a rather shady place, and we were at once so 
very much at home that we talked with our mouths 
full. 

While we were breakfasting — the little slipper 
was still on the chair by the bed, but I had quite 
forgotten it ; one does sleep off these affairs — while 
we sipped coffee and looked at one another over the 
rims of the cups, I wondered when Junius would 
return from the country; I also wondered how 
Junius could have ever deserted Bloomsbury for 
the country while Josie beamed there. Perhaps 
Junius had been robbed of too much rest, and was 
recruiting. Gordon had lately received a postal- 
card announcing that, business of great importance 
being nearly completed, the return of Junius might 
be shortly looked for. Junius was my friend; I 
eagerly awaited his advent. Other friends had been 



310 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

sheltered under the Gordonian roof-tree. There was 
" O charming May," whose stage smile had so often 
warmed my heart and won my enthusiastic applause ; 
but she was playing at the world's end now. " O 
charming May " had the first floor front, now occu- 
pied by the " Diana of Song." She followed the 
brief career of " Our Lady Correspondent " — " Our 
Correspondent," who goes from land to land unat- 
tended, unterrified, uninterrupted, bearing upon her 
brow that universal passport, " To all to whom these 
presents shall come, AS A WOMAN AND AN 
AMERICAN, Greeting!'' She blew back bubbles 
of news, from time to time, that seemed to float 
to us out of the air, they were so vague and unsub- 
stantial. She had heard of my arrival in London, 
and wrote from Constantinople to tell me in three 
lines that Wallis — my natural mate — awaited me 
at the chambers in Charlotte Street. " See Wallis 
and die," said " Our Lady Correspondent," signing 
my death-warrant with a flourish of ink that was 
not only suggestive of Oriental opulence, but looked 
a little like despotism. 

The baron, second floor front, knew the exact 
address of this Eastern queen, and I dropped down 
upon the baronial hold at once. The baron was 
bent nearly double, and he had the appearance of 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 311 

an old gentleman annoyed beyond endurance, who 
is going to butt his aggressor. Nothing could ha\e 
been further from his thoughts;, he purred delight- 
fully when you went into his room, and dusted one 
unoccupied chair, while he pumped up a few feeble 
remarks from a pair of lungs that were evidently 
pumped nearly dry. There were stacks of old books 
around the walls, and an antiquated flavour greeted 
you the moment the door opened. The baron made 
his own tea in a small pot over the gas. I believe 
that the baron lived on green tea and parchment, 
but that was his affair entirely. He very kindly 
gave me the address I desired, written in a quaint, 
quivering chirography that looked like a pattern for 
embroidery. 

In time there came a cloud over our house. The 
unnatural lodger who nettled everybody in the 
neighbourhood finally ceased to be endurable, and 
he was taken forcibly out of the place by two officers 
in felt helmets. It seemed that he owed fabulous 
sums to Gordon, and not only to her, but to multi- 
tudes of others who were continually applying at 
the street door, and thereby hastening Gordon's end. 
Now, we had no wish to lose the head and front 
of our lodgings, and so we all entered a complaint 
and had the nuisance removed. As soon as he was 



312 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

gone there was nothing too bad for us to say of him. 
We called him everything that is unpleasant and 
un-American. It was really scandalous, the way he 
had behaved and the way we talked of his behaviour ; 
but what can you expect of a man from the wilds 
of the United States, who had a perceptible accent, 
and who ate mustard on his mutton, than which 
there is nothing more abominable in the eye of 
England? It was well that he went as he did, for 
Junius would have to go into that room. Where 
else in the house could he have slept ? By the way, 
I wonder where the baron could have slept. There 
was no bed in his room, and no closet out of it; 
did the baron, like a turkey, sleep on one leg? I 
think not, he w^as too old for that! 

So Junius was, at last, coming; I should again 
embrace my friend, after long years of separation, 
with never so much as a cancelled postage-stamp to 
mark their flight. We missed Junius — Josie and 
I. We were always talking about him, and wishing 
he were with us, when we tripped gaily on our way 
to Tom's Coffee-House at Holborn. You see we 
had grown tired of solid comfort at home — solid 
comfort is so monotonous — and now we sought a 
new interest in life through the medium of change. 
Tom's Coffee-House was like a cheap model of a 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 313 

Pullman car. It was long, and narrow, and low- 
roofed. An aisle ran down the middle of it between 
two rows of compartments; in each compartment 
was a table just big enough for four persons to sit 
at, two on either side. The place was dingy and 
dark, as if it had been backed into the middle of the 
block, out of the way ; but we knew how to find it, 
and we often went there, because there is nothing 
better in all London, of a morning, than Tom's hot 
buns, well buttered, or the round of toast and the 
pot of tea such as Tom offers you of an evening. 
You would think the ghosts of a Dickens • novel 
haunted the place; old men and women, boys and 
girls, very unlike what one is used to seeing, were 
ever to be encountered there, and we gloated over 
them day after day, wishing Junius were with us 
all the time. He knew Tom's by heart; he knew 
London — that is, as much of it as any one man can 
know, but how small a part of the incomprehensible 
city that is, after all. Josie and I went up and down 
the streets after supper, and saw new marvels at 
every turn. The melancholy Ethiopian minstrel 
sung cockney songs and picked ^' the old banjo " 
as it was never before picked in public; the pipers 
piped to us, but we refrained from dancing, chiefly 
for the reason that the whole sidewalk was sure to 



314 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

be engaged by troops of street children, who tossed 
their heels in the wildest fashion through an im- 
promptu ballad of despair. These little things were 
starving; they were pinched with cold; some of 
them were without shelter, and had known little but 
harsh treatment from the hour they came into the 
world by mistake; yet they danced as soon as the 
first notes of a street-organ were heard, and for the 
time they seemed to forget that it were infinitely 
better for them had they never been born. 

We used to moralise and sentimentalise to a con- 
siderable extent in those happy hours; one enjoys 
it so thoroughly when one is well fed, well clad, 
and half in love besides. I wonder if there was 
really anything between us — I mean between Josie 
and me ! I had forgotten to get the talking bird that 
was to hang in the window and do wonders ; but 
you see, we had so much else to think of, and then 
Wallis came to see me, and we instantly embraced, 
and my heart seemed to have been cut in two in 
the middle, for he took away with him at least half 
of it, and kept it at his chambers in Charlotte Street. 

One day there came a rap at the door of the 
Bloomsbury Lodgings. We knew it was not the 
postman — the postman, who has a rap of his own, 
that is unlike the rap of any mere mortal. We all 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 



315 



rushed into the hall to listen, while Mrs. Bumps 
went to the door. Of course, it was Junius; why 
need I keep you in suspense when the fact is so 
evident ? We all have presentiments at times ; there 
is a subtile something that tells you when your friend 
approaches, w^ien she you love is thinking of you. 
Perhaps the angels have a hand in it — God bless 
them ! — it is their delicate way of ministering to 
our spiritual needs. Well, Mrs. Bumps opened the 
door and there stood — an entire stranger, who was 
nothing whatever to us ; he wanted to engage rooms, 
which was out of the question, and offered fabulous 
sums for the same. This looked suspicious, and we 
were glad we were all full. The stranger seemed 
uncomfortably well off in his own estimation, and 
w^hen we dismissed him without a shadow^ of regret, 
he left Bloomsbury with a small dust-cloud in his 
wake. 

The expectation and disappointment which that 
rap created in our household was tremendous. I 
could not endure it; it was evident that something 
had happened to Junius. He had probably been 
ground to powder in one of the daily collisions that 
add vastly to the mortality of England, but without 
which she would, no doubt, be speedily overpopu- 
lated. There seems to be a Providence in these 



3i6 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

things ! I went at once to the chambers in Charlotte 
Street, where I was sure to find consolation in the 
bosom of my particular Wallis. I was dreadfully 
overcome. I turned in my mind, on my way to 
the chambers, a few obituary notes, for something in 
that line would be expected of me by the survivors in 
Bloomsbury. How distressing it is to lose a friend 
— one whom you have not seen for ages — one who 
never drops you a line under any circumstances, 
and who, for that matter, might as well be in the 
next world, and perhaps much better be there for 
his own sake: between you and him the grave has 
yawned as much as it can yawn, and it is only wait- 
ing to be filled in with the last vestige of memories 
grown cloudy and shapeless with time! 

Wallis took me in hand. He is just that sort of 
a fellow. He talked me out of my obituary and 
walked me off to the circus, than which probably 
no earthly circus could be finer. It was " Cinder- 
ella," represented by the whole rising generation of 
" the company," who played so remarkably well that 
I felt my childhood had been a complete failure. I 
doubt if I should have added anything but distress 
to a sawdustical, serio-comical, spectacular perform- 
ance, when I was under my teens, even though I 
had been swaddled in spangles and trained to pose 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 317 

like a Cupid ! Rather late in the evening, I returned 
to the Lodgings. There was a sound of revelry in 
the catacomb, and a soft light glowed in the thick 
sheet of glass set deep in the pavement in front of 
the house. Gordon's idea of the empyrean has been 
founded upon the green gloom that visits her daily 
through this obtuse medium. It occurred to me 
that the body of my friend had arrived, and they 
were having a wake in the catacomb. I regretted 
that Wallis had turned my mind from the obituary, 
which might have been completed before now. Gor- 
don would want one framed for her private collec- 
tion ; Josie might appreciate this tribute of friendship 
to departed worth; I could place one in my scrap- 
book, where it would have added sentiment and 
variety at one and the same time. I was annoyed 
at Wallis for his lack of judgment, and I adjourned 
to the public-house at the street corner to fortify 
myself with a deep potation. Presently, having in 
a measure recovered my equilibrium, I unlocked the 
front door of the Lodgings, and paused for a moment 
in the dark hall; almost immediately I was sum- 
moned into the presence of the supreme Gordon, and 
when I got there I was seized and madly embraced 
by Junius himself, still in the flesh, in the best of 
spirits, in dress clothes, and in capital condition 



3i8 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

every way. Junius had grown a heavy beard since 
last we saw each other; with this exception we met 
as we had parted, and resumed our intimacy just 
where it was ruptured when he sailed for England. 
There was an aromatic odour of bride-cake in the 
air. There was great rejoicing in the catacomb; 
everybody was unnaturally gay, as everybody is 
wont to be when two souls have but a single thought 
(which argues a great want of originality in one 
of them), and that thought is the unutterable one 
that includes license, parson, clerk, etc. Well, why 
do I dwell upon this point ? I looked at little Josie ; 
she was suspended on the strong arm of Junius, 
and I fancied there was a shade of defiance in her 
gentle eyes, but perhaps it came from Junius's 
broad shoulder, as her head was remarkably near it. 
He was all smiles — where he was not broadcloth 
— and it was evidently my duty to congratulate him. 
I did it, freely and generously ; but I congratulated 
myself, at the same time, upon not having been such 
a goose as to introduce another bird into the family. 
I drank the health of the happy pair; I joined 
Gordon in a loving-cup, and Mrs. Bumps in a 
bumper. I aroused the count, who had wilted over 
the back of his chair, and we grew friendly toward 
one another. The noble young fellow, with the 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 319 

presence of mind noticeable in some people under 
certain, or rather uncertain, circumstances, instantly 
presented me with a card bearing his illustrious 
name, accompanied with a crest. This ceremony he 
repeated at intervals of ten minutes, as long as we 
were within reach of each other. I was too late to 
touch glasses with the baron, who had already gone 
to roost. I was too early for the " Diana of Song," 
who was expected to favour the company as soon 
as she arrived; but I concluded not to wait for the 
rest of the merriment. I had had a great deal more 
than I expected, as it was. 

I retired, overcome by the mysteries of the house 

in Museum Street. O J ! you were right; I do 

not wonder that you rushed fiercely over the conti- 
nent in the vain search for peace and forgetfulness ! 
As for me, I said unto myself, because there is 
no one else on the third floor to hear it, " I will 
arise and go into chambers in Charlotte Street; 1 
w^ll see Wallis and die ! " This, then, was the 
mystery of Bloomsbury Lodgings. It zvas a little 
strange that in a house where I had reason to suppose 
everybody knew everybody's business, no one should 
have known of this. But perhaps that is not quite 
so mysterious as something else I might mention, if 



320 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

I only would, and I believe I will. Do you know I 
had quite forgotten a fact of the greatest importance 
to me and another, who for her sake shall be name- 
less — to wit, I was all this time quite otherwise 
engaged! 



III. 

CHAMBERS IN CHARLOTTE STREET 

IT is just possible that somewhere in the artistic 
annals of Fitzroy Square there is mention of 
a brotherhood like ours, but I doubt it. Will, 
Wallis, Joe, and I constituted a quartet of good 
fellows who seemed to live chiefly for the purpose 
of making one another happy ; we were like the four 
quarters of a whole; our little household was a 
unit that gloried in itself. We acknowledged no 
rivalry ; we w^ere the champion happy family of the 
season. The wonder was that we were so late in 
coming together, for all previous life seemed incom- 
plete in comparison with our flourishing present, 
and we realised that the future would be a blank, a 
desert waste, a howling wilderness, if any one of 
us were to be spirited away, and our little circle — ■ 
our little square, I should say — broken before we 
had grown gray and wall-eyed and decrepit, toward 
the close of a long and remarkable career. 

321 



322 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

Perhaps you might not have Hked us, for as a 
general thing happy f amihes are a bore ; they always 
aet as if they were a moral exhibition, to which even 
a ridiculously small price of admission is a kind of 
extortion. We were all in all to each other, and did 
not seem to care a penny for the world's opinion, but 
gathered about our frugal board in the early candle- 
light, feeling as gorgeous and important as a council 
of four. Will sat at the head of the table, and 
carved the roast as if he were a surgical student, 
instead of a dramatic critic who had written his 
novel and sometimes dined with the publishers. 
Wallis presided over the vegetable diet of the family 
and sketched comicalities for Punch. Joe, a rising 
Thespian, with big lungs and a morbid tendency, 
faced me; he and I kept the beer-jug on the move, 
thus uniting, as it were, in closer bonds of fellow- 
ship the representatives of literature and art who 
graced the extreme ends of the table. We being a 
community of confirmed " stags," women were for- 
bidden the premises; that is, all women save the 
blooming Mary^ who tidied our untidy lounging- 
room and served our meals at the appointed hours. 

We sat at table one evening, talking of men and 
things. It was toward the closing agonies of the 
Tichborne case, and we looked to Will for the sum- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 323 

ming up of the final evidence in that remarkable 
trial, and for the charge, which he kindly gave to 
us in absence of the jurors. We expected some- 
thing of the sort from Will, just as much as if 
he had been judge, jury, queen's counsellor, and 
doctor of laws, all in one. A young man who has 
written his novel, who moles daily in the British 
Museum, who dines with publishers, and is growing 
round-shouldered, is surely one to look up to, and 
we sat with our bills wide open, like nestling birds, 
awaiting Will's concluding and conclusive remarks. 
Will looked at me, and said with some solemnity: 
" Such is life, dear boy ! Have some more mutton ? " 
I had no stomach for mutton ; the life Will had just 
laid bare to me took away all my appetite. It did 
not concern Sir Roger ; we had adjourned his case 
to the next day. We were discussing young Brick- 
sharp, who was born with a silver spoon about the 
size of a ladle in his mouth. At the unearthly age 
of eighteen he had seen himself '' hung on the line" 
in the Academy; yet not satisfied with that pre- 
mature triumph, he infused his whole soul into a 
novel; the novel was just out, being both praised 
and blamed, as all uncommon productions are likely 
to be, in about equal proportions. 

Will was ready to wager any fellow at our table 



324 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

that Bricksharp would not be satisfied with a literary 
success as uncommon and unaccountable as his ar- 
tistic ditto, but would probably turn to the stage in 
search of a new world to conquer, and then he con- 
cluded with that striking period, '' Such is life, dear 
boy! Such is life." You may have heard it before, 
but I have my suspicions that Will is the father of 
it ; it sounds just like him. 

Joe discredited Will's prophecy, on the ground 
that no fellow who looked like Verdant Green, wore 
glasses, and had thick blonde hair with a deep part 
in the middle, would have the presumption to at- 
tempt the '' boards." Wallis roared lustily, and at 
once produced a sketch-book, on a blank page of 
which he dashed off an astonishing likeness of 
Bricksharp attempting the " boards " — glasses, 
blonde hair, and all! 

I said nothing. What could I say ? — or do, but 
sit and wonder what manner of man your young 
Londoner is ? And so we finished our dinner in an 
interval of silence, and withdrew to the fire, ringing 
for Mary to remove the doth. 

You see it was an " off " night : there were no 
engagements at the clubs, no new play to be seen 
and criticised, no pretty actress to be sketched in her 
pet pose; even Joe was out of the bills for a week 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 325 

or two. We therefore gathered about the fire in 
slippers and dressing-gowns, and loaded each his 
pipe. The after-dinner hour was ever sacred to 
digestion and fumigation. Many a brave plan was 
dreamed out over our tobacco, and ended there in 
smoke; but Mary was sure to enter at the right 
moment with a great pot of coffee, and we restored 
our souls — helping one another with an amiability 
in which each sought vainly to excel, and a prodi- 
gality that was sure to be nipped in the bud by the 
sudden appearance of damp grounds in the nose 
of the coffee-pot. 

In the middle of our coffee, Will turned to Joe, 
the pet of the family, and reproved him roundly 
for putting the small of his broad back on the seat 
of the biggest chair in Charlotte Street, and throw- 
ing his legs on the mantelpiece. Have you noticed 
how family pets are always getting snubbed by big 
brothers ? Joe growled, and looked to me for justi- 
fication in an act which is popularly supposed to 
be one of the earliest instincts of the American, 
though he probably inherits it from the Pilgrim 
fathers; I believe it has never been clearly stated 
which side was uppermost when they came ashore. 
I blushed for my country — they seemed to expect 
something of the sort from me — and buried half 



326 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

my face in a coffee-cup, when a step was heard in 
the hall. It was not the step of Mary; you never 
knew she was within gun-shot until she took you at 
short range, with the least little bit of a tap on 
the thin panel of the door. 

" Come in," said Will. We always shifted the 
initiative to Will's shoulders. Who is so well able 
to bear them as the novelist, the dramatic critic, the 
man who daily spends six hours in the British 
Museum? And then it seemed to us the best plan, 
for we could twit him with any misfortune that 
befell the family in the shape of a bore, and he took 
abuse like an ox. 

"Come in," again said Will, with severity; for 
nobody accepted the first invitation. We were all 
silent, while you could count six, and the door 
opened. A blonde head with a deep part in the 
middle, eye-glasses, and the face of Verdant Green 
— this was the sum and substance of the apparition 
that followed the door-handle into the room. " Hil- 
loa. Brick ! " cried Wallis. " How are you, 
Sharpy! " said Joe. " Welcome, dear boy! " added 
Will, bringing up the rear with the paternal air 
that sometimes impressed us, though as a general 
thing we scoffed at it. 

Bricksharp drew up to the fire, and we all changed 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 337 

our positions; we did not, however, make a move 
until he had seen us in our normal state — that is, 
very much disordered and wholly at our ease. Girls 
would have been more cautious and considerate, but 
stags are such ingenuous fellows they don't seem to 
care a hang. 

Bricksharp not knowing me, and apparently not 
caring to know me, sat close to me, and at once 
began a minute inspection of my person. I wish 
people who keep their eyes under glass would not 
scowl so ! I mean those with a pair of round, owlish 
glasses, pinched on the bridge of their nose like a 
patent clothespin. I wish people wdio part their 
hair in the middle, and sit in a chair with their 
stomachs to the back of it as if 'they were riding 
a hobby-horse, would have some regard for other 
fellows' feelings! 

Bricksharp took a pipe — he was offered a whole 
handful of them ; we always kept a large assortment 
on the right side of the mantel, in a rack that looked 
like an arsenal when it was full. Bricksharp struck 
a match, and said, without reserve, that the editor 
of the Saturday Evening Crncifler was a *' hass ! " 
Had Will seen what the imbecile said of the novel 
in the last issue ? Will saw everything, remembered 
all that he saw, and was very concise in his evidence 



328 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

on any point when under cross-examination. Wal- 
lis, Joe, and I humbled ourselves every day before 
him, for we wxre shamefully ignorant of some 
matters that seemed to him quite as important as 
the salvation of our souls. 

Will thought the case of the editor in question 
not without hope. But Bricksharp w^as merciless; 
he rended the unfortunate critic limb from limb; 
he took up the writhing fragments and reviled each 
in turn. In the heat of his anathema it was dis- 
covered that we — Bricksharp and I — had not been 
introduced, and an introduction was exploded in 
our midst. I recoiled; Bricksharp barely acknowl- 
edged it, shuddered slightly, and resumed his 
slaughterous work. I suppose we instinctively dis- 
liked each other; but, thank heaven, we did not 
come to blows. I had not read his novel ; he did not 
know that I was threatened with all the symptoms 
of a novel myself. We were not rivals — we merely 
loathed one another, from instinct, I suppose. A 
cat and a dog always do that sort of thing without 
provocation. Perhaps he preferred w^aiting until I 
could meet him on common ground, at Mudie's, 
in three volumes. 

More knocking at the south entry ! No need now 
for a summons to enter; the door was burst open 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 329 

as if the warm south wind had suddenly risen in 
the lower hall and sent an impassioned gust rushing 
up into our room. It came up - in the form of 
an electrical head of hair, a silky brown beard that 
had never known the razor, and a brawny, boister- 
ous body that seemed to flush to the tips of the toes. 
This muscular Christian leaped into the middle of 
the room with a light portmanteau in one hand and 
a travelling-rug over one shoulder. He was saluted 
with a broadside from the fireplace, that sounded 
very much like a chorus from a comic oratorio ; the 
refrain was, " Harry, Harry, Harry, O Harry Bluff! 
how are you?" He was likewise embraced with 
an enthusiasm which was rather Continental than 
English. 

It was Harry Bluff, the Oxonian, who runs up to 
London whenever he feels like it, and that is nearly 
every week — Bluff, who has condensed in his 
physical battery the vitality of six town-bred men, 
and who took our house by storm whenever he came 
into it. 

Bluff came toward me as a stranger, with a look 
of greeting which would have been enough to make 
us friends; and the moment the formality of an 
introduction was got over we were like old acquaint- 



330 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

ances. I carre very near to asking after all his 
chums, as if we must know them in common. 

After Bluff's arrival, the elements began to har- 
monise, and everybody said his wittiest things in his 
best style. Even Bricksharp grew amiable ; he once 
or twice looked at me with less severity than at first, 
and I began to feel that perhaps I might eventually 
become comparatively unobjectionable in his eyes — 
though of course it must be a matter of time. Brick- 
sharp told Blufif of the unlucky review of his novel, 
and hinted that the Saturday Evening Cruciiier 
would not long survive. Bluff agreed that it had 
probably signed its own death-warrant, and offered 
Bricksharp his sympathy very much as a big New- 
foundland dog offers his paws, with the very best 
motive, but in a delightfully clumsy fashion that 
nearly flattened out young Bricksharp. 

The circle was again formed about the fire, and 
we revelled in anecdote, mild punches, and deep 
sweet bowls of tobacco. 

Bluff had opened his portmanteau soon after his 
brilliant advent, and exhumed a large jar of the 
w^eed, such as is affected by Oxonians ; it was enough 
better than our best to warrant our encomiums, for 
the London mixtures have certain parts of fog in 
them that leave a stain upon their very memories. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 331 

More fellows came in : a youngster, fresh in 
England, who was looking for his first full-page 
cartoon in the next issue of London Society; a 
slender law student who did a little versifying in the 
German tongue, but abhorred the publicity of print ; 
an artist, who was ever imbibing, but never so far 
forgot himself or his friends as to be other than 
genial and juvenile — who but a freshman can be 
both at any age and under any circumstances? 
There was also a musical celebrity who did the solo 
business in provincial concerts, but seemed to be 
travelling for the express purpose of having adven- 
tures suitable for retailing before our fireside, on 
his periodical returns to town. 

We laughed that night until we were hungry, and 
Mary was rung up out of the basement to provide 
us with bread and cheese. We drank our house 
dry; we smoked ourselves black in the face; and 
then, regretfully, we took lingering leave of one 
another, and began working our way to bed. 

Bricksharp came very near shaking me by the 
hand when he was about leaving, because he was 
shaking the hand of everybody in the room, and 
his glasses seemed to obstruct his vision; but he 
recognised me just in season to dismiss my palm 
when it was half-way over on the way to his, and 



332 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

I was obliged to make a wild gesture of farewell, 
as if it were my custom, while I hoped no one ob- 
served my awkward situation. Ah! Bricksharp, 
my fine fellow ! wait until my novel comes out, and 
see how I behave under pressure! The limp artist, 
who rose to depart, took up the empty bottles in 
turn, and set each down again with a series of 
grimaces that would have filled one number of 
Punch to repletion, embraced us all freely and fre- 
quently, and returned to his seat as if it were all 
over with him. The musical member sung his adieu 
in a few bars from Offenbach that must have dis- 
turbed the seven sleepers on the floor below us ; but 
we didn't seem to care for that. 

The London Society boy acted as if he didn't want 
to go home alone, but finally went, which was well 
for him, as we stood in a line and yawned fright- 
fully, as if we would eat him if he didn't go at once. 
The Oxonian stayed; Harry always stayed when 
he came to the Chambers; we made it so difficult 
for him to escape that it was quite useless for him to 
attempt it, save in the direst necessity. I went up 
to my room over the hall of revels, and left all the 
fellows to sleep — about six in a bed, I should say. 

As the only serious member of our family, Joe's 
melancholy was simply comical. I was wont to 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 333 

rise a half-hour earher than the other boys and 
repair to the great room, which was study, studio, 
greenroom, and dining-hall, all in one; there I 
sorted the mail, glanced into the papers, and walked 
the floor inhaling stale tobacco-smoke and thinking 
over the orgie of the night previous, until I was 
joined by the tardy ones. Meanwhile, Mary brought 
up the breakfast, and I threatened to eat it all unless 
each came forward immediately to claim his share. 
At table we opened our letters. Will's usually 
bore a monogram, and was signed by the publishers. 
These documents of Will's impressed us, and we 
secretly revered the novelist and dramatic critic who 
apparently held the destinies of publishing houses 
and theatres in his hands — but we never let him 
know it. Wallis got orders for more pictures than 
he could possibly produce, and he often threatened 
to turn some of the work over to Joe. Joe was not 
only actor, but artist and poet as well ; that was 
Joe's great misfortune, for between the three he 
accomplished but little. His letters were mostly 
flowery, fragrant, and feminine. I fear to think 
what might have been the nature of these dainty 
epistles, but as Joe sometimes shot madly from his 
sphere — stars do that sort of thing when least 
expected, and we looked upon him as a star — and 



334 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

was not seen again for some hours, but returned to 
us dejected and distressed, as if he were a ruined 
man, I had my dark suspicions. Joe was older than 
WalHs, but Walhs always took Joe in hand on such 
occasions, and even Will could not be more authori- 
tative. Joe suffered Wallis to lead him back into 
the right path without a murmur; but if Will ever 
attempted anything of that sort, there was a row 
in our house. 

My letters bore foreign postmarks, and were read 
a line at a time, between breakfast and dinner, so as 
to make them as long as possible. 

On the rnorning after Harry's arrival, I found a 
large placard in the mirror, addressed to me in the 
following language : " Dear boy, don't wait break- 
fast for us ! " It was Will's wording, but signed by 
a committee of the whole, and I at once bowed to the 
irresistible. It was Sunday, the London Sunday 
that has no beginning and no end. You are brought 
up standing at the close of six busy, blustering days, 
with a realising sense of the fact that the business 
and the bluster are utterly suspended. Your sails 
are all aback; you do not know what to do with 
yourself. A thousand church-bells are ringing wild, 
discordant changes, that are enough to drive any 
sensitive Christian soul from the very doors of the 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 335 

sanctuary; many of the streets are deserted; the 
people seem paralysed; half the chop-houses are 
closed; all the public-houses are bolted during the 
hours of religious service, before and after which 
they are besieged by throngs of thirsty publicans and 
sinners, who drink so much and so greedily they 
get dreadfully disordered before evening. Even- 
ing ! I used to think the evening would never come ; 
yet there was no escape from the day itself. Even 
the great green parks had a desolate air about them, 
as if all their supplies liad been shut off, it being 
Sunday; and the pedestrians who found their way 
into the broad meadow-lands, wherein even the roar 
of the city at high noon sounds faint and afar off, 
wandered to and fro like lost souls. 

That morning I ate my lonely breakfast, took 
seven turns about the room, wished I could sleep the 
way some fellows sleep, and then went out to church 
just to get rid of myself. In the hall I encountered 
seven pairs of shoes highly polished; they extended 
in a line from the door of our mess-room to the 
top of the stairs. Mary must have whiled away 
many a dull hour over the blacking-pot; but, for 
all that, Mary was good-natured. 

In the street I met no one that I knew. It seems 
to me one never meets a familiar face in London. 



S36 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

Where do all one's friends keep themselves, I 
wonder? The air was nipping; a hoar-frost lay 
on the shady side of the street; a bloodshot sun 
looked over the forest of chimney-pots and de- 
pressed me. I sought relief in prayer at my favour- 
ite chapel, the Italian, in Holborn, where the music 
is angelic and the congregation picturesque. Under 
one gallery knelt a group of girls, their rich olive 
complexions heightened by turbans of the gaudiest 
description. Coming out of the colourless atmos- 
phere of a London Sund'ay, I believe I may hope 
for pardon if, in my distraction, my heart sought 
consolation somewhere between the high altar and 
the Italian seas! 

The homeward tramp undid all the good I got of 
my hour of prayer. There seemed to be but two 
sorts of people in the world — those who were black- 
ing boots, and those who were getting their boots 
blackened. I missed the thousand and one delights 
of the week-day; I grieved for the absence of the 
melancholy singer of comic ballads; likewise the 
man who cracks his cheeks over a cornet, which 
instrument was probably never intended by Provi- 
dence to be sounded outside the pale of the barracks. 
What had become of the solo-performer who afflicted 
our streets on windy days ? Oft had I seen that brass- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 337 

mounted Teutonic tooter blowing his eyes out of 
focus, and as often had I turned from him with dis- 
pleasure. I should have welcomed him on Sunday, 
had he only ventured to break the day with his sharp 
staccato ! 

Reentering the Chambers, I found the table 
cleared. Wallis sat at his easel by one of the win- 
dows, lightly throwing off a sketch for Punch — 
a rather serious sketch it was, in honour of the day. 
" Well, Charley," said Wallis, with an r that was 
almost insurmountable, " how goes it ? " It was 
thus we opened all debates at the Chambers; the 
interrogation was ever looked upon in the light 
of a challenge, and I turned to him suddenly with 
this reply, which I hurled at him with considerable 
spirit, as if he were to blame for such a state of 
things : " Do you know how London seems to me ? '* 
said I. *' Well, sir, London, of a Sunday, seems 
to me the saddest place in the world. It is as if 
four millions of people had been condemned to dwell 
together for ever and ever in uncomfortably close 
quarters. Some of them make the best of it, most 
of them make the worst of it; all of them must 
wander to and fro in the labyrinth of streets, 
strangers to the pure air of the hills and the sweet 
breath of the meadows; crowded into solitary cor- 



338 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

ners, without the consolation of silence, without the 
charm of change, even without the blessed sunshine." 
I paused for a reply; there was evidently no reply 
forthcoming, so I hung myself over one of the chairs 
by the fire as if I were a martyr just from the rack, 
who now courted his crown of flames. At this stage 
Wallis forgot his art and came to my relief. We 
smoked together a pipe of peace ; we sent Mary for 
a pot of stout, and began relieving our minds of 
some family histories that seemed to weigh heavily 
upon them. 

It was very cosy up there in the living-room, we 
two together unweaving our web of life. Over the 
mantel hung a mirror nearly obscured under a cloud 
of photographs. On one side was a clever crayon 
sketch of a rowdyish girl, who smoked a perpetual 
cigarette and looked bewitching; it was a testi- 
monial from a lady friend of Wallis, who illus- 
trates the monthlies. Our book-shelves came next; 
they were crowded by a miscellaneous stock that 
has won commendation even from the critical Will. 
There were two or three paintings by Joe; sugges- 
tions of what he might do in that line if he would 
only half try, and with which we were ever pointing 
a moral, much to Joe's discomfiture. If there is 
anything Joe hates more than another it is moralis- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 339 

ing in Charlotte Street. He says he gets enough of 
that from home. 

We had an original Wallis in our collection, of 
which we were all very proud, and also a couple of 
ideal busts in marble, done by a friend of '' the 
boys," who died too early, for the busts are the 
admiration of every fellow of good taste who visits 
the Chambers. The little medallion of Shakespeare 
hung over the door of a closet by the chimney, in 
which were stored manuscripts, portfolios of 
sketches, play-books, retired pipes, and the number- 
less odds and ends that bachelors are sure to accumu- 
late, and never know how to get rid of. 

My little medallion of Shakespeare has a history. 
For two long years it had hung in the living-room at 
Anne Hathaway's cottage. Heaven knows how 
many pairs of covetous eyes had wandered to it, 
and heaven knows also how my heart leaped up 
when the good old dame at Shottery took it down 
from its peg on the wall and placed it in my hands 
with the wish that it were a choicer token. The 
serene quiet of that dear old cottage has hallowed 
It; could it be bettered, I wonder! 

Then there was Wallis's easel by the window 
where it ever stood, and Will's desk by another win- 
dow, the exclusive use of which I had, as Will did 



340 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

all his work at the Museum. There were dressing- 
gowns, slippers, smoking-caps, morning papers, and 
little drifts of " bird's-eye " all over the room. It 
was just the place for four such fellows as we were, 
and we relished it hugely. Wallis said that when 
he first came to London with a portfolio under his 
arm and his heart in his throat, the room he had 
was as dark as a snuff-box; you saw nothing from 
the small window but a houseful of misery across 
a damp court that looked like a sepulchre. Day 
after day he set out with a hopeful heart and sought 
engagements, but was turned from office to office 
until evening. There is no end to the newspaper 
offices in London, and therefore there was a fresh 
hope every morning, though long before night it 
had dwindled to a mere shadow. He would have 
kept heart even on this light diet, if he could have 
kept stomach also, but that was out of the question. 
Young artists have young appetites, and you know 
what inconsolable things they are. He was growing 
faint, and dizzy, and desperate on small rations. At 
last he was driven in sheer despair to the office of 
the venerable Punch. Probably nothing but absolute 
necessity could have forced him to it, for Punch is 
such an august personage that it is quite natural to 
suppose he associates with nothing short of the Royal 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES ' 341 

Academy. Well, Wallis ventured in and offered 
his sketches; they were rich '' goaks," written out 
in a hand as plain as print and graphically illus- 
trated. A severe person, sitting at a desk in an 
upper room, said, '' Leave them and call in an hour," 
The sketches were left. Wallis walked round and 
round the block for half an hour, and began to 
think he had overshot the time; the next half-hour 
was like a lingering death, but he managed to sur- 
vive it, and on the stroke of the hour he reentered 
the office and awaited the final verdict. It was his 
last chance ; he had eaten nothing for many hours, 
simply because he had had nothing to eat. The 
severe person said, ''Did you do these yourself?" 
— as if Wallis would let any one do his work for 
him. Wallis said he did, and could do it again 
at the shortest notice. " Very well," said the severe 
party ; "we will take these, and you may do it 
again." Wallis had a shock and a draft payable at 
the office below at one and the same moment. He 
staggered down the stairs, and when he got iato 
the lower hall he fainted dead aw^ay. You see he 
was awfully hungry, and very much excited, for it 
was such a triumph to get into Punch so nicely. 

I wondered if Will had ever suffered so. He, of 
course, had his trials ; but as Wallis had broken the 



342 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

ice and got a footing, it was easy for Will to follow 
suit, and moreover the one encouraged the other, 
and so they got on finely. Joe could never have 
worked his way alone in London ; but Wallis wanted 
some one to look after, and Joe was just the fellow 
who needed a good deal of that sort of thing, so 
Wallis sent for Joe, and saw him safely through his 
dehut and in receipt of a comfortable salary. He 
bowled him off into the provinces at times with some 
travelling company; and when Joe wrote up to the 
Chambers that the management had " burst," and 
that his wardrobe w^as in pawn, Wallis, like a dear 
fellow, redeemed the wardrobe, Joe, and all. Then 
we had a reunion dinner in Charlotte Street, and got 
very noisy and affectionate before morning. 

There was but one objection to the Chambers in 
Charlotte Street. Just under us lived two medical 
students, who were so quiet during the week that 
we unanimously resolved they were under the influ- 
ence of an opiate; but, as soon as Sunday came 
round, these medicos awoke from their slumbers, and 
sung Methodist hymns to the lugubrious accompani- 
ment of a melodeon. We could have forgiven 
hilarity; we might even have countenanced a shade 
of profanity; but a London Sunday coupled with 
antiquated hymns — the music of the past, which is 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 343 

to me even more unintelligible than the music of 
the future — this was a little beyond forbearance. 

Need I say that they were Americans, those chant- 
ing cherubs of the '' Choir Invisible " ? Must I add 
that I began to wonder how I ever came from 
America myself, and yet was goaded to fury by the 
harmonies of my countrymen on the first fk>or? 
Probably our countries will never be truly reunited 
so long as these things are persisted in by the radi- 
cals. Let them be crossed out of the code of inter- 
national courtesies, or we are lost! 

They took us for Englishmen, and in the guise of 
Englishmen we danced wild war-dances over their 
heads whenever we grew weary of their song- 
service. 

In these spirited diversions we were not unfre- 
quently joined by our friend Harry Bluff. I am 
happy to state that he did wonders in the way of 
increasing the riot. It was his delight to raise the 
dining-table nearly to the ceiling, and then let it 
drop with a crash that ought to have loosened the 
plaster over the heads of the psalm-singers on the 
first floor. It was a bit of Guy Livingston business 
such as only Bluff the Oxonian was equal to; we 
blessed him in a chorus, chanted at the top of our 
lungs, and concluding with a burst of enthusiastic 



344 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

applause from ourselves. Meanwhile the house 
quaked to its foundations, and Mary stole in to 
remove the fragments of whatever fragile wares she 
might have left since breakfast. 

Perhaps we may impress you as having been 
unamiable. I think we were not as genial as we 
might have been under other circumstances; but 
this pastime of ours seems unworthy of your dis- 
approval, when I tell you that through all the tem- 
pest of our wrath the calm voices of those singers 
soared on and on to the very end of the Psalter, and 
I have always believed that they had a way of 
intoning the " index of first lines," as if it were a 
pious pot-pourri arranged expressly for that pur- 
pose. Do medical students practise this sort of 
thing habitually, I wonder ? 

Finding American placidity rather too much for 
us, we usually gave up the contest in the course 
of a few hours, and quitted the house to slow music. 

There was much visiting to be done among us: 
the clubs ; chambers in other streets than Charlotte, 
where bachelor London revelled in luxury and ease, 
for it knows how to improve its time. The theatres 
beguiled us, and we took an occasional prowl in the 
dark parks, where we saw the shadow of much 
that was past finding out, and caught fragments of 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 345 

human history from the lips of woe that were won- 
derfully tragic and impressive. We chatted with 
the midnight watchmen at the street-corners, who 
often grew communicative, and we discovered that 
some of them have an eye to the romantic side of 
their life. 

We had ever a seat at our table for a friend, and 
the amount of good-fellowship that emanated from 
the Chambers was in great disproportion to our 
incomes. That we seemed to care little for; we 
had all lived, loved, and suffered, and we could 
do it again if necessary — in fact, we would a little 
rather do it than not. 

Joe was finally booked for a benefit at one of the 
suburban theatres. It was to be the turning-point 
in his career — by the way, he was always having 
turning-points, and it is a singular but indisputable 
fact that if you will only turn often enough, you will 
ultimately come round to the original starting-place. 
This is a feat that Joe excelled in. Everybody now 
worked for Joe's benefit; even Will was good 
enough to forget the Museum for a whole week, 
that he might work up the matter well. Joe was 
perfectly safe with the critics — at least with Will, 
you know, and he was chief in our eyes. I suppose 
we were never more necessary to one another's hap- 



346 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

piness than at that moment ; for if the benefit were 
a failure, we should take upon ourselves the odium, 
and not for a moment think of blaming Joe. 

Nine boxes were sold at once. We were wild 
with excitement; it seemed to us that all London 
was about to rise up and call Joe a genius. The 
second nine hung on our hands to an inexplicable 
degree ; but all was not lost ! Bluff sent a telegram 
announcing the joyful intelligence that he was 
coming up from Oxford with a tribe of his " pals," 
and if they did not carry the house by storm it 
would be because the ancient glory of Oxford had 
departed out of her ! 

At the very climax of the enthusiasm which this 
dispatch created, Joe was taken ill. Poor Joe! 
There is no place like home to be ill in, and so he 
hurried home, and the benefit was indefinitely post- 
poned. Everybody lost interest in everything after 
that, at least for a week or two. It seemed as if 
London were preparing herself for the reception 
of Macaulay*s New Zealander, and all on Joe's un- 
lucky account. Things seemed to be ravelling out. 

One evening a letter came to me. We were 
gathered about the fireside, smoking in silence, as 
was our custom between dessert and coffee. I broke 
the seal, and read in the mysterious J 's great, 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 347 

sprawling, unmistakable hand, something to this 
effect: " Ah, God! Here is peace! Cross the Rubi- 
con, and come to Rome. I have folded my tent, 
and in the shadow of the Seven Hills I will lay 

my bones! " So the blue J was nested again. 

I buried my face in my hands, and thought tremen- 
dously for five minutes. O Rome, my country! 
Rome, the eternal! the soul's city! How the word 
rung in my ears ! I grew hot in the face, my breath 
came short and quick; then I re-read the letter that 

was so like J -. My hand shook so that I had to 

guess at most of it, but I had little difficulty in re- 
calling the substance of the first reading. So he 
had folded his tent! I did not know he had been 
camping out anywhere, but perhaps it was only his 
way of expressing something else. He was going 
to lay his bones under those classical old hills, was 

he? Evidently J was in a decline. I must fly 

to him, if I would once more see him alive. He had 
found peace at last, and perhaps it was a peace big 
enough for two. I wanted some of it — I never 

manage to get much of it anywhere; perhaps J 

would go me halves? This decided me. 

" Boys," I said, suddenly — and there must have 
been something strange in my voice, for they all 



348 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

looked around at me in such a curious way — 
" boys, Em going to Rome! " 

"When?" asked Will. 

'' To-morrow," I gasped ; the thought half took 
my breath away. Then we were all silent for 
awhile. Wallis presently broke in with, '\ You 
Americans are queer cases. You never know where 
you are going next, nor how long you will stay 
when you get there." 

I was hurt, and in self-defence read aloud J 's 

letter. 

" There, now ! Is there any reason why I should 
not go to him, I should like to know? " 

Joe grunted a deep stage grunt that unmanned 
me, as I said, with assumed indifference, *' Oh ! very 
well. Perhaps I shall lay my bones — somewhere 

— some time! " 

Then Wallis m.elted, gave me a regular bear-hug, 
and said : " We shall miss you awfully, but it can't 
be helped, I suppose." 

I was much flattered and partially consoled, but I 
turned to Will for a clincher. Will shook his wise 
young head, and added : " Such is life, dear boy 

— such is life ! " I began to realise that it was ; 
the conviction deepened that night as I packed up. 
All next day I was rushing about with a long 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 



349 



through-ticket in my pocket and a hatful of P.P.C's. 
When evening came on again many of the old fel- 
lows happened in ; we had rather a quiet dinner, the 
only dull one I remember in Charlotte Street; and 
after that, as there was a hansom at the door, and 
everybody was standing around rather loosely and 
looking at me as if something were expected of me, 
I said : " Well, so long, fellows ! " and the next 
thing I knew I was whirling away in the chill air of 
the night, through endless streets, toward the great 
Victoria Station, on my lonely way to Rome! 



ONCE AND AGAIN 



ONCE AND AGAIN 

/^^NCE and again I have nestled in the lap 
^^^ of a small village and wondered at the ne- 
cessity of any world beyond my peaceful hori- 
zon. Once and again, after long years, I have 
entered the old schoolroom with the fearful and 
impatient heart of a boy; I have paced the play- 
ground and gone to and fro in the village streets 
singing, but the song I once sang came not again 
to my lips, for it no longer suited the time or the 
occasion. 

I thought to take up the thread of life where I 
had dropped it near a score of years before, and 
complete the web which fancy had embroidered 
with many a flower of memory and hope and love. 
I had forgotten that the loom weaves steadily and 
persistently whether my hand be on it or not, and 
that I can never mend the rent in the fabric I so 
long neglected. 

My record elsewhere is replete with numerous 
accidents by flood and field — with the epochs of 

353 



354 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

meetings and marryings, of births and deaths. 
Meanwhile^ the friends who had held fast to me 
through all these changes wrote ever in the selfsame 
vein, and plotted for my return with such even and 
sturdy faith that I had grown to look upon them 
as having drunk at the fountain of immortal youth. 

Of course the delectable spring gushed out of the 
heart of one of those dear old hills that walled in 
the village, for how else could they have quaffed 
it ? The bones of more than two centuries pave the 
highway between New England and California. 
As jubilant as young Lochinvar, I came out of the 
West one summer dawn, and took train for Hearts- 
ease. I had resolved to compass in a single week 
the innumerable landmarks that dot mountain and 
desert and prairie — to leap as it were from sea to 
sea, from the present to the past, from manhood 
to early youth. 

Is it any wonder that I forestalled the time, and 
was a day and a night distant before inquiring 
friends discovered my flight? Is it any wonder that 
the shrieking and swaying train seemed slow to 
me, for already my spirit had folded its swift wings 
in the nest-like village of Heartsease? I had, more- 
over, by this brilliant manoeuvre, left the bitter cup 
of parting untasted — but nothing more serious 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 355 

than this — and seemed to have won a whole day 
from the clutches of Time, who deals them out so 
stingily to the expectant and impatient watcher. 

San Francisco faces the sunrise, but there is a 
broad glittering bay and a coast range with brawny 
bare shoulders between them: I sailed over the 
flashing water, rode under the mountains and 
threaded three tunnels before I began to realise that 
I was a fugitive from home. It was midsummer; 
the car-windows were half open; whiffs of warm 
wind blew in upon me scented with bay-leaves and 
sage. For a moment I forgot Heartsease and the 
home of my youth, and turned tenderly to take a last 
farewell of the beloved land of my adoption. The 
corn was cut and stacked in long dusty rows; it 
looked like a deserted camp; the grain was down; 
small squirrels skipped lightly over the shining 
stubble, whisking their bushy tails like puffs of 
smoke. It seemed to me that no fairer land ever 
baked in summer's sunshine. Even the parched 
earth, with its broken and powdered crust, was 
lovely in my eyes. Small day-owls sat in the cor- 
ners of the fences, when there were any fences to sit 
on, and nodded to me from behind their feather 
masks : all the birds of the air taunted me with 
heads on one side and drooping wings. I might 



356 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

escape trusting humanity and steal away betimes, 
but these airy messengers waylaid me and chirped 
a sarcastic adieu from every field we crossed. 

In the compulsory solitude of travel a man is 
thrown back upon himself; at any rate, I am, and 
with waning courage and a growing regret I sank 
into a corner of my seat by the window, and glow- 
ered at the interminable slices of landscape that slid 
past me on both sides of the rocking train. Have 
you ever noted the refrain of the flying wheels as 
they hurry from town to town? There is a sharp 
shriek from the locomotive, and a groan from one 
end of the train to the other, as if every screw were 
rheumatic and nothing but a miracle held it in its 
place. Then the song begins, very slowly at first, 
and in the old familiar strain : " Ko — ka — chi — lunk^ 
ko — ka — chilunk, koka — chilunk, kokachilunk," re^ 
peated again and again, varied only when the short 
rails are crossed, where it adds a few extra syllables 
in this style : " Kokachilunk — chilunk, chilunk," 
growing faster and faster every moment until the 
utmost speed is attained; it then soars into this 
impressive refrain : " Lickity-cut, lickity-cut, lickity- 
cut, lickity-cut," repeated as often and as rapidly as 
possible. All the world goes by in two dizzy land- 
scapes, yet the song is unvaried until you approach 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 357 

a town with a straggling and unfinished edge, where 
the houses are waltzing about as if they had not 
yet decided upon any permanent location. Here 
you slacken speed and drop into a third movement, 
as monotonous as the others and far more drowsy, 
for it suggests all that is soothing and nerve-relax- 
ing and sleep-begetting. It is '' Killikinick, killi — 
kinick, killi — kin — nick ; eh ! ah ! bang ! " A long 
groan from the wheels, a deep sigh from the loco- 
motive, and you are stock-still at some inland hamlet 
that knows no emotion greater than that occasioned 
by your arrival. 

To this dull accompaniment I climbed out of the 
golden lowlands, the basins of the San Joaquin and 
the Sacramento, into the silver mountains where the 
full moon was just rising. The train seemed to 
soar through space; we passed from cliff to cliff, 
above dark ravines, on bridges like spider-webs; 
Yve whirled around sharp corners as if we had 
started for some planet, but thought better of it 
and clung to earth, with our hair on end and half 
the breath out of our bodies. We were continually 
ascending; the locomotive panted hideously; every 
throb of the powerful machine sent a shudder 
through the whole length of the train. 

Again and again we paused : it seemed that we 



35 8 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

could not go farther without rest. Sometimes we 
hung on the edge of a chasm in whose fathomless 
shadow were buried a forest and a stream, both of 
which sent upward to us a fragrant and melodious 
greeting; sometimes we rested under a mighty 
mountain, whose adamantine brow scowled upon 
us, and we were glad when we once more resumed 
the toilsome ascent of the Sierras and escaped 
unharmed from that giant's lair. 

Once we tarried on the brink of a wild canon. 
Midnight and silence seemed to slumber there; the 
moon flooded one-half the mysterious gulf with 
light, revealing a slender waterfall whose plash was 
faintly heard; it served only to make the silence 
more profound. Near at hand the torn and ragged 
earth, robbed of its treasure, looked painful even 
in that softening light. On the dark side of the 
caiion, in among the trees, a flame danced. I saw 
the gaunt forms of rough-clad men gathered about 
the camp-fire, and beyond them a rude cabin of 
unbarked logs, looking cheerful enough in the rosy 
light. 

There was nothing lovelier than this or more char- 
acteristic in the glorious ride over the Sierras — not 
even the lake, above whose green shores we rushed 
with half a mountain between us; nor the ice- 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 359 

gorges, nor the black forests, nor the chaos of rock 
and ravine that has defied the humanismg touch of 
time. I felt the burden of the mountains then, and 
it is for ever associated with a memory of the high 
Sierras, caught and fixed as we swept onward into 
the wild, wide snow-lands. 

The burden of the mountains : There shall come 
a day when the ravine for the silver is drained and 
the gold-seekers turn from thee disconsolate, but 
thy years are unnumbered and thy strength unfail- 
ing ; the grass shall cover thy nakedness and the pine- 
boughs brood over thee for ever and ever; the 
clouds shall visit thee and the springs increase ; the 
snows shall gather in the clefts of thy bosom; thy 
breasts shall give nourishment, thy breath life to the 
fainting, and the sight of thy face joy. The people 
shall go up to thee and build in thy shadow; their 
flocks shall feed in peace ; out of thy days shall come 
fatness, and out of thy nights rest, for thou hast 
that within thee more precious than silver, yea, 
better than much fine gold. 

When the burden was past I looked out into the 
night. A soft wind was stirring; I scented the 
balsam of the piny woods ; the moon had descended 
beyond the crest of the mountain, and above me 
the sky was flooded with pale and palpitating stars. 



36o EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

We slid out of the mountains into the broad Hum- 
boldt desert one cloudless day : it was like getting 
on to the roof of the world — the great domed 
roof with its eaves sloping away under the edges 
of heaven, and whereon there is nothing but a mat- 
ting of sage-brush, looking like grayish moss, and a 
deep alkali dust as white and as fine as flour. 

There were but two features in the landscape on 
which to fix the eye, and these were infrequent — 
the dusty beds of the dead rivers and the wind- 
sculptured rocks. It was the abomination of deso- 
lation: the air was thin, but spicy; the sky was 
bare. When we had followed with eager glance the 
shadow-like gazelle in his bounding flight, and 
brought the heavy-headed buffalo to a momentary 
stand, with his small evil eye fixed upon us, he 
vvj^eled suddenly and disappeared in a cloud of 
dust; and we were alone in the desert. 

Those mellow hours by the inland sea, where sits 
the Garden City, with its wide, grass-grown streets 
and its vine-veiled cottages basking in summer sun- 
shine, were precious indeed ! We had ample oppor- 
tunity for developing philosophy, sentiment, and 
politics at one sitting. Coming out of the fair and 
foul refuge of the fleshly saints, I thought of the 
wisdom of the French poet who once said to me. 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 361 

" Oui, monsieur ; life is an oasis in which there is 
many a desert." In the unfruitful shoots of those 
thorn-bearing vines and withered fig-trees I learned 
the burden of the desert : Though it blossom as the 
rose, if it yield not honey it shall be laid waste; 
though it deck itself with beauty, though it sing 
W'ith the voice of the charmer, its fairness is a mock 
and its song is the song of the harlot. Harbour it 
not in your hearts. Let it be purged of uncleanness. 
let the stain be washed from it. Though the builders 
build cunningly, they have builded in vain. There 
is blood on their lintels, and their hearts are full of 
lust. He that sits in the seat of the scornful and 
is girded about with pride, let him fall as the tree 
falls, even the king of the forest, for there is 
rottenness at the core. 

Like pilgrims in the earthly paradise we ploughed 
the long grass of the prairies ; like a fiery snake our 
train trailed over the flowering land; its long un- 
dulations were no impediment; the grassy billows 
parted before us; we cleft the young forests that 
have here and there sprung up at the call of patient 
husbandry; myriads of wild fowl wheeled over 
the fragrant and boundless fields; every flower in 
the floral calendar seemed at home in those meadow- 
lands of the world ; the sunset was not more glori- 



362 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

ous than the gentle slopes that swept to our feet like 
a long wave of the sea, and then broke in a foam of 
flowers. Not only was the delicious day promise- 
crammed, but the night, loud with the chirp of 
the cricket and the cry of the sentinel owl, seemed 
the realisation of some splendid dream. 

Out of the redundant and prophetic life of that 
land I heard a prophecy, and the prophecy was the 
burden of the prairies. It is the chant of the 
future, full of life and hope. I see now rows of men 
and women, the toilers of the earth; they have 
planted forests and the strong wind is stayed ; they 
have broken the soil and the grain is breast-high; 
they are merry, for they are free, and their stores 
increase with the years. Wine and oil are their 
portion, and fat kine and all manner of cunning 
workmanship; their cities are greater and better 
than the old cities, for they are builded on virgin 
soil ; and the day shall come when the jubilee of the 
prairies will assemble the hosts from the borders 
of the two seas, and they will hear their praises sung 
and receive tribute, for the strength of the land is 
theirs. 

And we came into other countries that were full 
of people, and of cities great and small. A thousand 
strange faces were turned upon us as we shot past 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 363 

the open doors of houses wherein the table was 
spread for the domestic meal. We hailed the field- 
labourers and the town-artisans at their toil, and 
every hour plunged deeper and deeper into the old 
civilisation of the East, which in some respects 
differs greatly from that of our breezy West. It 
was time to be thinking on my journey's end and 
its probable results. I seemed to read it all before- 
hand : Ellen would greet me at the gate of the 
parsonage on the edge of Heartsease, looking just 
as she looked when I parted with her long, long 
years before. Ellen had not changed with time; 
she had written me the same sweet, placid, sympa- 
thetic letters from the beginning, and the beginning 
was when, a mere child, I had worn out my heart 
with longing for home, and had at last been wel- 
comed back over the two seas and across the slender 
chain of flowers that binds the two Americas to- 
gether — back to the land I love, California. Ellen 
would lead me in all the old paths; we would see 
the garden in which, as a trustful boy, I more than 
once sought her to confess some grief, knowing 
there was no ear so willing as hers, no heart ten- 
derer, no counsel more comforting. We would row 
up the stream that runs under the hill by the wil- 
lows, and stand in the same shallow nook, in hon- 



364 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

our of the festal Saturdays dead and gone. We 
would gather the old friends about us, and eat very 
large apples by the study-window; we would hunt 
nests in the hayloft and acorns in the wood; the 
schoolroom would take us back again, and all the 
half-obliterated memories of the past would glow 
with fresher colour. A hundred hands would be 
stretched out to me, and I would recognise the 
clasp of each. Ah, happy day when I again returned 
to Heartsease and found the lost thread of my 
youth unbroken, and I had only to weave on and 
complete the fabric so long neglected ! 

There were a dozen trains to enter and get out 
of before I could be whirled across the country to 
Heartsease. Now that Heartsease was easily at- 
tainable, all the restless world would be fleeing 
thither, and it would no longer be worthy of its 
name. I felt my way from town to town, pausing 
an hour here, another hour there, in an impatient 
mood, for the last train was behind time, and I 
feared I should not arrive in the village at the 
moment of all others I most desired to. Why should 
I not come at sunset to the parsonage — one from 
the land of the sunset, wearing, as it were, his 
colours on his heart? The hour is so mysterious 
and pathetic — the very hour to step in upon the 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 36S 

village, for so you can gloat over it all night, before 
the sun has laid the whole truth bare to you on 
the following morning. And morever I had not 
written Ellen of my intended visit : why should I, 
when she had been looking for me these ten years 
at least ? Why should I say, '* At last I am coming," 
when a thousand things might have prevented me? 
Was it not better to walk up the long road from 
the station at twilight, pass silently through the 
quiet, familiar streets, and then, as I approached 
the gate of the parsonage, discover a form waiting 
there as if expecting some one, but whom it was 
hard to say? Drawing nearer, I would recognise 
the form, slender and graceful, and then the face, 
placid and pale, with the soft hair drawn smoothly 
over the temples and the thin hands folded in peace. 
Oh, yes, it was much better thus. 

At the last change of trains, ten miles from 
Heartsease, a heavy summer shower was drenching 
the town; the very rain was hot, and the earth 
steamed lustily. I feared my plan was spoiled, my 
meeting at the gate after long years of patient and 
hopeful waiting. But the rain passed over, and 
I was again under way. Now every inch of the 
land was familiar: I recognised old houses and 
barns and strips of fence and streams that had not 



366 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

been in my mind once in all these years. I knew 
every block of forest that had been left on the 
border of the upland fields, and all the meadows, 
marshy or dry ; the very faces of the people seemed 
to recall some one I had known before. The hills 
were like lessons learned by heart ; and now I came 
upon the actual haunts of my schoolboy days — 
the wood where we gave our picnics ; the red house, 
a little out of the village, where one of the boys 
lived — strangely enough, the house I remembered, 
but the boy's looks and name had gone from me 
— and then the train stopped. I felt a tingling sen- 
sation, as if the blood were coming to the surface 
all over me. 

A switchman, and a stranger, waved us welcome 
with a yard of flaming bunting. I hurried out of 
the car and alighted within half a mile of Hearts- 
ease. On the platform, where I had parted with 
my schoolmates fifteen years before, I waited till 
the train had passed onward and out of sight. I 
was alone; the switchman asked no odds of me, 
but furled his bunting and immediately withdrew. 
For a moment I looked about me in bewilderment. 
I think I could have turned back had I been encour- 
aged to do so, for I felt half-guilty in thus surprising 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 367 

my friends. A moment later I plucked up heart 
and struck into the road that leads up to the village. 

The road has a margin of grass and weeds, and 
there are meadows on both sides. I walked in the 
very middle of it, with my portmanteau in my hand, 
and looked straight ahead. Before me lay the vil- 
lage, a cluster of white houses embowered in trees. 
It was sunset; the rain had washed the leaves and 
laid the dust in the road; the air was exquisitely 
fragrant and of uncommon softness; the white 
spire of the village church, flanked by a long line of 
poplars, was gilded with a sunbeam, but the lowly 
roofs of the villagers were bathed in the radiant 
twilight that had deepened under the western hills. 
Cattle were lowing in the meadows; the crickets 
chirped everywhere; a barbed swallow clove the 
air like an arrow whose force is nigh spent; and 
a child's voice rang out on the edge of the village as 
clear as a clarion. I paused and laughed aloud. I 
was mad with joy; an exquisite thrill ran through 
me ; it seemed to me that the most delicious moment 
of my life had come. 

I entered the village a boy again, with all the wild 
ambition of a boy and with a boy's roguish spirit. 
I resolved to play upon them at the parsonage. If 
Ellen were not at the gate waiting for me, I would 



368 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

enter as a stranger and remain a season before 
throwing off disguise. I would cunningly lead the 
conversation from topic to topic until we came 
naturally to the past, and there in the past my 
shadow would appear, and then at the right mo- 
ment I would throw myself at Ellen's feet and bury 
my head in her lap and weep for very joy. 

These dreams beguiled me as I drew near the 
village. My step was buoyant; I scarcely felt the 
weight of my portmanteau; I was drunk with ex- 
pectation and delight. In the village I found the 
streets and houses and signs for the most part un- 
changed, but I looked in vain for a familiar face. 
A few lads were playing about '* the corners," and 
when I saw them it suddenly occurred to me that 
all those youngsters under fifteen were not born 
when I was a schoolboy in Heartsease. I turned 
away from them with a feeling of unutterable dis- 
appointment. Why should not all my playmates be 
married or dead or have moved out of the village 
if changes had come to it ? I had not thought much 
of change in this connection, and it was a hard blow. 

A faint flush was in the evening sky : it was the 
afterglow, and in its light I pressed onward toward 
the parsonage. A hollow in the road, through 
which a stream rippled, lay between me and the 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 369 

grove that sheltered Ellen's home : I hastened down 
it, and began climbing the easy ascent on the other 
side of the stream. I seemed to grow years older 
with every step I took, for I knew that the change 
which comes to all must have come to me in like 
measure, though I was a boy again when I came up 
the road laughing and heard the first sweet village 
voice. 

There was no form at the gate awaiting me, but 
the house was quite unaltered, and I knew every leaf 
in the garden. The flush in the sky had turned to 
gold and the air throbbed with light as I hid my 
portmanteau under the rose-bush by the gate and 
stole up to the study-door. I would not give so 
palpable a clew to my identity as that; I wished 
to appear like one who had dropped in for a moment 
to ask the hour or the loan of a late journal. I 
rapped at the shutters that enclosed the outer door, 
and waited in a tremor of expectation : there was 
no response. Again I rapped, and again waited in 
vain for a reply. 

The shadows deepened in the grove; a thin light 
sifted down through the leaves and fell upon the 
door-step in pale disks that seemed to tremble with 
agitation and suspense. I grew uneasy, and feared 
it was not wise of me to have come without an- 



370 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

nouncement, and my heart beat heavily. I walked 
nervously to the side of the house and glanced in 
at the deep bow-window; a shadow crossed the 
room ; it was Ellen's shadow, and unchanged, thank 
God! I knew she would not change, for she was 
one whom time wearied not and fear fretted not, 
but to whom all things were alike welcome, inas- 
much as they came from the Hand that can work 
no ill. 

I returned to the study^door and rapped again, 
and then grew suddenly much excited; I almost 
wished I had not summoned her so soon, but already 
I heard her step upon the carpet, her hand on the 
latch, and the shutters swung apart. I strove to 
calm myself and ask carelessly if she were at home, 
when I thought I saw a difference in the form and 
face before me: they were so like Ellen's, but not 
hers. Had it been in my power to do so, I would 
have turned at that moment and gone out into the 
world without questioning any one; I would gladly 
have avoided any revelation of ill that might have 
befallen that household, and gone on as before, 
thinking it was well with them. But it was too late ; 
at the same instant we recognised one another. 

" Is it Emma? " I asked, fearfully. 

" You are not — " 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 371 

Ah, yes, it was he who had promised all these 
years to come, and had come at last ! 

Then she added, " You have come too late; Ellen 
left us one week ago." 

I knew what that meant ; it was the leaving that 
takes all along with it, and there remains nothing 
but a memory instead. It was the leaving that lays 
bare the heart of hearts, and strikes blind and dumb 
the agonised soul — the leaving and the leave-taking 
that is all bitterness, call it by what name you will 
— that makes weak the strong and confounds the 
wise, and strikes terror to the breast of stone — 
the leaving which is the leaving off of everything 
that is near and dear and familiar, and the taking 
on of all that is new and strange — Death ! Death ! 
at the thought of which even the Son of God faltered 
and cried, '* If it be possible let this cup pass from 
me," alone in that wild night in the garden, with 
watching and prayers and tears. 

I had dreamed out my dream; it was glorious 
while it lasted, but I wakened to a reality that was 
as cruel as it was unexpected. 

Emma was a mere child when I left Heartsease; 
she had grown into the living image of her sister. 
Whenever Emma spoke I seemed to hear the voice 
nnd feel the presence of the one who had been gone 



372 EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

a whole week when I came in search of her. I 
entered the stricken home: father, mother, and 
maiden aunt — that good angel of all homes — w^ere 
to me as if I had parted with them but yesterday. 
We sat in silence for a time; it seemed to me that 
if any one spoke there the very walls of the house 
would distil sorrowful drops. Our hearts were brim- 
ming, our lips were quivering with inexpressible 
grief. It was a solemn and a holy hour; the night 
closed in about us with unutterable tenderness ; the 
summer stars shed down their radiant beams. 

The vesper-song of some invisible bird called me 
into the garden, and I walked there alone. Did 
I walk utterly alone? A spirit was with me. I 
wandered out to the gate and drew my portmanteau 
from its hiding-place; I placed my hand upon the 
latch; the gate swung easily, but I paused a mo- 
ment. Shall I go or shall I stay? asked my heart. 
" Stay," said the spirit that was with me. I re- 
turned to the house and joined in the evening meal ; 
sorrow sat at the board with us, but not a hopeless 
sorrow. The magnetism of her touch had not yet 
left that home ; it never need, it never will leave it, 
for it is treasured there. Her piano was closed, 
and I would not open it ; any harmony would have 
been too harsh for the hallowed silence of the place. 



i 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 373 

Her books, her pictures, her dainty needlework, her 
words — all that had been a part of her life — still 
lived, though she had left us. 

Those were sweet days to me. Emma and I 
went side by side to the old haunts — to most of 
them, but not all, for there were some I cared no 
longer to revisit. Before w^e had compassed the 
narrow limits of Heartsease I began to wonder if 
there was a stone left that would give back to me 
the impression of my early days; they all told an- 
other story now, and most of them a sad one. Even 
the schoolroom was as a dead thing, though I sat 
on the old benches and mounted the rostrum 
whereon I was wont to " speak my piece " with 
much trepidation of spirit and an inexplicable weak- 
ness of the knees. I wrote my name on the wall 
in an obscure corner, simply because I didn't want 
it to be stricken off from the roll entirely, and then 
turned back into the street with less regret than I 
had reckoned on. 

Of all the old friends I had known in boyhood, I 
saw but two besides Emma — two sisters whose 
histories were strange and wonderful. They greeted 
me as of yore, and we talked of the past with pity 
mingled with delight. Dick, my old chum, Emma's 
soldier-brother, was miles and miles away; not a 



iT^ EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

boy of all our tribe was left in Heartsease to tell 
me the story of the past. I began to be glad that 
it was so, for the great gulf that lay between me 
and the boy I had been seemed to render, up, up 
ghosts but were shrouded in sorrow. --^ T o^i 

There was one spot I might have visited,_but did 
not : it seemed to me better to wander to and fro 
about the dear old parsonage with the living spirit 
near me, and to go out again into the world with 
the softened influences of that lessened but unbroken 
circle consoling me, than to seek the new grave that 
had not yet had time to clothe itself with violets, 
and the sight of which could have given me nothing 
but pain. By and by, I thought, let me return, and 
when it has healed over and is sweet with summer 
flowers I will sprinkle rue upon it and breathe her 
name. I went back from Heartsease like the bearer 
of strange news. We had all sat together and 
thought, rather than uttered, the memories of the 
past; they weighed me down, but they were pre- 
cious freights. When I looked once more, and for 
the last time, upon the darling village drowsing in 
the sunshine, I felt that I had learned the burden of 
the hearth : Not length of days is given, but the 
sweetness and strength thereof; their memory shall 
live even though the dead be dUst. Out of the loam 



EXITS AND ENTRANCES 375 

of this corrupting body springs heavenward the 
invisible blossom of the soul. You have watered it 
with tears ; let the performance thereof comfort 
you. Though ye die, yet shall ye live : thus saith 
the Lord. But shall the old days delight us and the 
past live ? Yea, verily, saith the Spirit — once, but 
never again! 



THE END. 



3i).77-9 



